


Falling

by OrilliaOrange



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Accidental Pregnancy, Angst, Detective AU, F/M, High School AU, Light Bondage, Major character death - Freeform, Modern AU, One Night Stand, Oral Sex, Pining, Shakespeare references!, Unrequited Love, brief sexual assault, falling in love with your best friend's partner, fighting a dragon in your pjs, going commando, how did that dragon get in your pjs anyways?, how to fight a dragon in the nude, popular kid/nerd au, single parent/teacher au, spoilers for varric's personal quests
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-08
Updated: 2016-10-20
Packaged: 2018-03-11 01:40:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 106
Words: 79,107
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3310880
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrilliaOrange/pseuds/OrilliaOrange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of one shots where Varric and Cassandra enjoy misadventures and falling in love.</p><p>(rating changed to explicit because)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Falling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Cassandra fall off a cliff

It happens out of the blue, at the stupidest possible moment. Varric sweeps his hair and a handful of mud out of his face. There’s no escaping the mud that covers him and the Seeker. It’s in his hair, his mouth, and down his shirt. The Seeker’s no better off- there’s mud smeared across her face like war paint, leaves and twigs tangled in her hair, and a branch sticking out of her armour. Cassandra is beautiful. He’s filthy, she’s filthy, and they’ve just fallen down a cliff. Varric honestly hates the Storm Coast.

 

At first he chalks the dizzy feeling up to going ass over tea kettle down a hill, except the feeling doesn’t go away once his head clears. Cassandra wipes the mud from her face and Varric is transfixed by the curve of her wrist, stares until he realizes what he’s doing and tears his gaze away from her face, tries to avoid looking at her by rummaging around for something to tie his hair back. As it turns out, he doesn’t need to look at Cassandra to be aware of her. She pulls the branch from her chest plate and grimaces. Varric feels her moving, is conscious of every muscle and bone in her body. It’s a horrible, vulnerable feeling he instantly hates. Cassandra runs her fingers through her hair and Varric’s own fingers ache to touch her.

 

“You are not injured, Varric?” The Seeker’s clipped voice cuts through the quiet, and Varric exhales.

 

“Nothing fatal, Seeker.” Varric says, wondering if that’s true.


	2. Snowfall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's snowing, and Cassandra realizes something.

Cassandra only notices when it overtakes her. They’re marching through Emprise de Lion, and by the Maker it is so cold. While they’re struggling through snow drifts, Varric entertains them all by grousing about the terrain and suggesting Cassandra punches dragons. She laughs, and (privately) allows it’s flattering. Their conversation turns to Varric’s books, and Cassandra realizes it’s been months since their bickering had any heat behind it. She asks why his characters need to suffer so much, and is genuinely enthralled by his response. Varric gestures while he explains, his hands shape ideas in the snowy air. Cassandra nods, asks more questions. Between one answer and the next, something shifts. She can see him, really see him. There is passion in Varric, something that smoulders in the heart of him. The dwarf smiles at something distant, and Cassandra feels warm despite the cold. Snow falls softly while they talk, and Cassandra’s fallen, too.


	3. It Bears Repeating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Varric are stuck repeating the same day over and over again.

Day 1

 

“That can’t be right, Seeker.” Varric peers up at her, sleepily.

 

It’s early morning and they’re at the Three Trout camp in Crestwood. That wouldn’t be unusual except that they were at the North Gate camp the night before.

 

“Why would I make it up?” Cassandra snaps, flinging the flap of Varric’s tent wide open.

 

The Seeker’s right. They’re definitely at Three Trout Farm. The quip he had prepared dies in his throat. No doubt the Seeker finds that satisfying.

 

Day 3

 

“Inquisitor, we must find out what has happened to us!” Cassandra pleads.

 

“We will, Cassandra, I promise. Dorian says he’s not sure if it’s time magic, but that seems likely. Even so, he says we ought to have seen some evidence of instability,” the Inquisitor says, offering Cassandra a reassuring smile.

 

It is not reassuring. It is the same explanation, the same placating smile the Inquisitor’s given her for the last two days.

 

“Give it up, Seeker,” Varric calls from his tent.

 

“I will not!” Cassandra spins on her heel to glare at the dwarf. “You may be content to relive the same day over and over-”

 

“The hell I am!” Varric’s face is thunderous “I have friends. A life. Both of which I want back. There’s just no way we’re getting help from them.”

 

“You don’t know that!” Cassandra snaps

 

“I’ve watched you spend half a day convincing the Inquisitor and Sparkler that we’re stuck in a time loop that only you and I are immune to, and the next day we’re back at the camp!” Varric rages. “It isn’t working, Seeker!”

 

Cassandra looks down her nose at Varric, realizes suddenly that she’s looming over him, doesn’t remember either of them crossing the campsite.

 

They glare at each other, take a step back, and Cassandra sighs.

 

“You are not wrong, Varric” she admits, grudgingly. “What do you suggest we do?”

 

“We’re stuck in the ass end of Crestwood, Sparkler’s no help, and there’s no way two non mages are going to break whatever this enchantment is.” Varric shrugs “How about a game of Wicked Grace?”

 

Day 5

 

“Maker’s breath!” Cassandra swears, throwing her cards on the makeshift table.

 

Around her, the Inquisitor and Dorian are missing the larger portion of their clothing. Cassandra herself has discarded both gloves, her boots, socks, and breastplate.

 

Varric is, of course, fully clothed.

 

This is their second straight night playing Wicked Grace, after they get through the day’s necessary actions (kill three bears, fight Red Templars, solve an astrarium).

 

At this point, Cassandra has to admit she and Varric work well together. She just doesn’t need to like that fact.

 

“Three of a kind” she says.

 

The Inquisitor and Dorian both look disgusted, throwing their cards on the table and promptly bickering about which article of clothing to remove.

 

“Four of a kind”, Varric lays his hand out with a shit-eating grin.

 

“Ass.”

 

As Cassandra peeled off the padded over tunic she wears under her armour, she could have sworn Varric winked at her.

 

Day 15

 

“No shit there we were, guards at one end of the alley. Nothing but trash and a brick wall at the other.” Varric’s mug wavers in the air ever so slightly.

 

“What did you do?” Cassandra hangs rapt on every word, eyes wide.

 

“Without missing a beat, Hawke tears into ‘em. Starts going on about how they’re ruining an undercover operation, calling them insubordinate idiots with all the sense the Maker gave a table! She threatened to have them fired and flogged out of the city!” Varric crows, face ruddy in the dying firelight.

 

“Never! And it worked? You escaped?” Cassandra breathes, eyes fixed on Varric’s face.

 

“We did! Made it all the way back to the Hanged Man!” Varric smiles into his cup, “Which was when Rivaini starts ordering drinks for the whole tavern, courtesy of the Kirkwall guard! She’d picked their pockets on the way past!”

 

Cassandra choked on her ale, sputtered a weak “No!”

 

“Ancestors strike me down if I tell a lie!” Varric laughed, pouring himself another drink.

 

“I do not think I should be encouraging you, dwarf.” Cassandra scolds, eyes glowing.

 

Across the fire, Varric notices that Cassandra’s sharp cheeks are flushed rosy from the fire’s heat and the ale, that her dark eyes glint in the firelight, and realizes that the Seeker is a beautiful woman.

 

Day 23

 

“Varric, do you think this will ever end?” Cassandra ducks the Red Templar’s axe, smashes her shield into his face.

 

She spins away, and Varric fires a crossbow bolt through the Templar’s throat.

 

A triumphant war cry and a burst of chill air signifies the Inquisitor and Dorian’s victory over the other side of the hill.

 

Varric re-holsters Bianca, shrugs. “Couldn’t tell you, Seeker. Either it runs it’s course, or…”

 

Cassandra grimaces. Neither of them want to contemplate what the future might bring if whatever enchantment they’re under doesn’t run its course.

 

Day 31

 

“Flush” Cassandra lays her cards down proudly. The Inquisitor and Dorian are only preserved from indecent exposure by their small clothes, while she and Varric remain almost fully clothed.

 

“Four of a kind. Would you look at that?” Slowly, Varric unwinds the sash from his waist and adds it to the pile of discarded clothes.

 

It was probably a bad idea to teach Cassandra how to cheat at cards.

 

Day 35

 

“It’s like an ache in my chest that doesn’t go away”, Varric says.

 

Beside him, Cassandra grunts in agreement. They’re lying under the statue of Andraste, on the hill overlooking old Crestwood, and they’re both drunk as lords.

 

“I felt the same after Anthony was killed. When I had the news of Galyan’s death from Leliana”, Cassandra says. “I am sorry about your Bianca, Varric.”

 

With a start, Varric realizes he hadn’t been thinking of Bianca at all.

 

Day 45

 

Cassandra loses track of the days, and it doesn’t bother her as much as it used to. She and Varric have fallen into a routine. In the mornings they alternate- some days she teaches Varric combat tricks, other days he teaches her how to pick locks. They fight bears, Red Templars, and solve an astrarium alongside the Inquisitor and Dorian. Some nights they play Wicked Grace together, or Diamondback.

 

When the Inquisitor and Dorian have gone to bed, she and Varric explore.

 

Cassandra finds she looks forward to their walks, late at night. Sometimes they go into the mountains, other times they wander the moonlit ruins of old Crestwood, and Varric tells ghost stories.

 

In return Cassandra tells him stories of her Mortilitasi uncle, the elaborate crypts that echo with the moans of the undead and reek of incense. She tells him of her Vigil, they argue over Tranquility.

 

One day, Cassandra can’t remember which, she told Varric about Antony. Not his death, but of their adventures as children. She and Varric had sat side by side, looking out over the remains of the old village. Gently, he had taken her hand.

 

Day ??

 

Varric’s stopped worrying about the time loop. If the world was going to end, it would have and they’d been free. Since it hasn’t, it’s probably a spell, and hopefully the mage responsible is eaten by a nug.

 

Instead of worrying, he goes on adventures with the Seeker. They trade stories, drink by the fire, watch the stars. Rather, Cassandra watches the stars and he watches her.

 

It doesn’t make any damn sense.

 

She’s still the Seeker- blunt, self righteous, hot headed, and infuriating. There’s just something else there now. Something that lingers in her smile, in the dark fringe of her eyelashes, the scar on her back from her first real battle, the susurration of her callused palms brushing his sleeve.

 

Varric sees her watching him, out of the corner of his eye. Dares to hope she’s feeling the same strange pull, the compulsion to touch that eats him alive every time they draw close to one another.

 

Day ???

 

They’re sitting next to each other on the hill above old Crestwood, moonlight limns everything around them, and Cassandra is beautiful.

 

He doesn’t mean to do it. Cassandra’s breath catches in her throat, and Varric feels his heart shatter, but doesn’t move his hand from where it’s cupped around her jaw. Her heartbeat throbs against his fingers.

 

It’s too much and not enough. He wants to run his hands over every inch of her, to press her against himself, and hold her as tight as he can. Varric wants to kiss her so much, it’s painful.

 

Cassandra exhales, and everything happens at light speed.

 

Her lips collide with his, Cassandra smears kisses across Varric’s mouth, his chin, his jaw, down his neck. Her hands slip beneath his tunic while his hands roam greedily over her body, pulling her closer.

 

One of them groans. Varric can’t be sure who it was. He feels overcome, flooded with relief. He kisses her, drags her down to his mouth, one hand fisted in her shirt.

 

“Varric.” Cassandra’s breath caresses his neck, sends chills down his spine.

 

With effort that feels almost inhuman, Varric stops kissing Cassandra long enough to look at her.

 

Cassandra’s hair is mussed, her lips red from kissing him, and her eyes shine, brighter than stars.

 

He could spend the rest of his life looking at her.

 

Cassandra searches his face, and whatever she sees, she must find satisfactory.

 

Cassandra yanks him forward, and Varric braces his hands on either side of her head. Her strong arms twine their way around his neck, and Varric is lost, lost forever in the way she bites her lip, in the joyous wickedness in her eyes.

 

Day 0

 

They wake up still on the hill above old Crestwood, dawn barely peeking above the horizon.


	4. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whatever happens, this will be always be enough.

With excruciating gentleness, Cassandra manages to turn the page of her book without dropping it on Varric’s head. Not that he’d be likely to notice, she thinks. Not only is his head harder than a rock, it’s about as heavy, too. The lamp on their bedside table flickers, and Cassandra notices the barest blush of light dawning over the mountains. This is the calm before the storm, and Cassandra intends to enjoy every second of it. Particularly these moments when the world is still, and Varric’s cuddled in close to her, head pillowed on her shoulder.

His limbs tangle around her much like the bedsheets tangle around them. A soft snuffle draws Cassandra’s attention from her book. With her other hand, she strokes Varric’s hair, absently winding it through her fingers. Unbound, his hair is soft, and fine. An odd juxtaposition with his face, which is roguish even in slumber. Laying her book aside, Cassandra memorizes Varric, the warmth of his body, the scrape of his stubble. The scars and furrows which mark them both. Every inch of him is unbearably precious to her, from the curve of his mouth when he smiles, his quick mind, and the loyal, loving heart he tries to disguise. There will be time enough for them, Cassandra resolves, wonders at how fiercely her heart burns. There will be time enough for them, if she must fight the Maker himself.


	5. Snowball Fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition becomes embroiled in a snowball fight.

Snow fell on Skyhold, turning the austere keep into a beautiful sculpture. The falling snow seemed to lighten everyone’s mood- there was a peacefulness embodied by the snow that soothed even the sternest heart.

“Andraste’s ass!” Varric yelped, as Sera managed to put a handful of snow down the back of his coat. Tearing off after the elf, Varric abruptly skidded to a halt and ran the other way. Emerging from behind the tavern, Iron Bull carried Scout Harding on his shoulders. The two of them had rigged up a sort of slingshot, springy cord tied around Bull’s horns.

Screeching as a snowball hit her square in the stomach, Sera dashed across the courtyard, intent on finding a vantage point from which to ambush the dwarf and qunari.

Laughing uproariously, Bull charged down the path, Harding attempting to aim despite the jostling. Varric dodged as the next snowy missile went wide, dropping down to scoop up some snow as he ran. Turning, Varric noticed Bull and Harding had both gone stock still.

On the steps up to the great hall, Cassandra wiped snow from her face, blinking as water ran into her eyes. Silence reigned over the courtyard, before another snowball hit the Seeker in the shoulder.

“Oh. Shit.” Bull remarked.

“You can say that again.” Harding agreed, watching as Cassandra’s eyes sought the culprit.

Whistling innocently, Varric wiggled his fingers at the Seeker in greeting. Wiping her smeared eye makeup, Cassandra glared at the dwarf. Varric enjoyed a split second of terror, wondering if he’d overstepped, before a snowball hit him square in the face.

Sputtering, he looked up the stairs at Cassandra, who smiled evilly, wiping damp hands on her coat.

“You realize Seeker, that this means war!” Varric called.

A snowball flew past him and smacked Iron Bull in the chest. The battle was on.

———

When the snowball war had ended in a tentative truce, the combatants had returned to their respective rooms, cold and damp but with rosy red cheeks, and each feeling a little lighter.

Stripping out of her wet clothes, Cassandra draped them over the railing with a sigh. At least the forge was almost always warm. Stretching, she turned to smile at Varric, climbing the stairs with a tray.

“Varric. Are those cookies?” she asked, one eyebrow raised and a smile breaking across her face.

“And some cocoa, courtesy of Iron Bull. He even threw in some of those guimauves he hoards.” Varric jerked his head towards the small cot which had replaced her bedroll, glad to see she’d at least piled the bed with blankets and thick furs.

Gently depositing the tray of treats on the little bedside table, Varric peeled back the sheets and ushered Cassandra in, handing her both steaming mugs before climbing in, himself. Comfortably arranged with Cassandra pressed up against his side, swathed in blankets, Varric picked up a book from the pile on the bedside table and began to read.

Outside, the snow still fell softly, and the sky darkened. Planting a kiss against the Seeker’s temple, Varric couldn’t help but feel at peace.


	6. Dream On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra wakes up

Cassandra wasn’t the type of person to put much stock in dreams. The Fade was a mishmash of the mind’s undercurrents, nothing that ought to affect the waking mind.

It was therefore annoying that a dream could influence her feelings. Cassandra sat for a few moments on the edge of her cot, head in her hands as she tried to shake the longing from her mind. 

Standing, she stretched, and began limbering up in the thin light of morning. It was too early even for the forge to be relit, and the silence of Skyhold meant there was little Cassandra could focus on, her morning routine had become nearly automatic years ago.

Finally finished with her morning exercises, Cassandra buckled on her armour, taking more care than usual with the straps and buckles. Even so, her mind wandered. Flashes of the dream left her feeling bereft. An idiotic thing, Cassandra snorted at her own foolish thoughts.

Such a dream was simply the Fade’s response to the Inquisitor’s announcement the night before, Cassandra reassured herself, tromping down the stairs and out the door towards the training dummies. While she was happy for the Inquisitor and Sera, it did throw into sharp contrast the lack of romance in her own life. One could only stave off loneliness with romance novels for so long, it appeared.

If she were being honest, Cassandra thought, sword smashing into the target dummy’s neck, that really made the dream even more ridiculous. After all, she had read another chapter of Swords and Shields before bed, and the dwarf’s absurd portrait was on the back cover.

Heart pounding, blood singing in her veins

Shaking her head, Cassandra growled at the training dummy and dealt it a vicious blow. Of all the people her mind could’ve conjured! She danced her way around the dummies, the same familiar routines that had always helped center her.

Blow after blow rained down on the dummies, straw and scraps of cloth flying everywhere. Cassandra brushed straw from her hair, plucked it out of her collar, and kept practicing.

That look. The look of a man who wasn’t sure if his touch would shatter something precious. Tender and scared and joyous, and under that, hungry.

“Maker.” Cassandra whispered, under her breath. Half plea, half curse.

Mostly curse, if she was going to be truthful.

The tip of her sword dragged on the turf. Overhead, the last vestiges of night had finally cleared from the skies. Skyhold was beginning to come awake.

I didn’t want to wake up, Cassandra thought. I wanted to stay, even if it was only a dream.


	7. Well, Shit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric needs some time to think.

Before he loved her, he’d loved her hands, Varric remembered. Those strong, scarred hands deftly adjusting delicate mechanical workings. Gripping the haft of a hammer. Softness and strength together, grease under her short nails. 

 

Fire roared in the grate while Varric tried to work, signing off on all the paperwork generated by the Tethras holdings. It was tedious work, not enough to stop his mind from dwelling on thoughts of her. Choosing to display himself in his usual seat at the great hall as though nothing was wrong was a mixed blessing. If he’d disappeared to brood, the whole keep would’ve known. Instead, he sat at his usual table in front of the fire, pretending nothing was wrong. 

 

In all their years together (fifteen, how had that happened?) they’d had their ups and downs. He’d always known, and loved, that she was headstrong, that she never let anything stop her from doing what she felt was right. She was stubborn and self righteous, and determined. He’d never thought she’d lie to him though. Not about something truly important. 

 

They’d gone through a lot of shit, but for some reason this was something that stuck, that ate away at him, something Varric worried he wouldn’t be able to forgive her for. 

 

Maybe that was why she’d lied, why she’d waited until there was no way to deny her involvement. 

 

She’d only wanted to help him. 

 

Varric closed his eyes, felt them ache from exhaustion. In his mind’s eye, he saw the sick glow of red lyrium, heard its seductive song. 

 

Wearily, Varric pulled a blank page close and stared at it. Managed to make it past “Bianca” before crumpling the page and tossing it into the fire alongside other failed attempts. 

 

Into the quiet of the great hall, the Seeker’s voice rang out, engaged in friendly bickering with the Inquisitor as they strolled towards the library stairs. Watching them pass, Varric thought of how the Seeker told him of the mage she’d loved, killed in the explosion at the Conclave. 

 

There had been no anger in her voice, no acrimony. Even though he’d snarled and warned her away when the Seeker had asked about Bianca. Instead, Cassandra faced him head on, and allowed him a glimpse beyond her barriers.

 

Realizing he liked and respected the Seeker was a shock. 

 

Cassandra wouldn’t shy away from something simply because it might be hard. She always wanted the truth, even if it hurt like hell. Just like how she’d given him the truth about her mage. It had been an apology. A strange, clumsy attempt at showing Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of Truth, Right Hand of the Divine, Princess of Nevarra, and all around hardass understood love and loss.  
Even if she pretended love was a four letter word.


	8. Dragon Age Noir

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Inquisition has sent the Seeker to find Varric, with an offer he really shouldn't refuse.
> 
> EDIT: This chapter and the following are now their own fic "Dragon Age Noir"! Please go there if you're interested in this AU! Thank you!

The night was young, and the bar was full already. The Hanged Man was a dive, but it was my dive, filled with the kind of people you wanted to stay friends with. Loud music drowned out most of the conversations, which was probably a blessing. Girls in short, shimmering dresses flung themselves around the dance floor, moving around their partners with frenetic energy. Colourful cocktails sloshed about, smoke wafted its way towards the ceiling from countless cigarettes. Another normal night at the Hanged Man, until she walked in. 

I took a moment to appreciate her. With women like the Seeker, you took risks getting an eyeful, but it was always worth it. She hadn’t spotted me yet, so I took my time looking. The Seeker’s legs went on for miles, her body long and pliant, but sturdy. Her dark hair was cropped too short for fashion, but it only emphasized the harshness of her cheekbones, and her dark eyes, hot as coals. She looked good, in her crisp charcoal suit, but in a joint like the Hanged Man, the Seeker was out of place. 

Mine weren’t the only eyes tracking the Seeker’s progress through the bar. Several shifty looking pairs of eyes followed her through the bar’s hazy atmosphere. Most of the smart ones took a quick survey and saw the same thing I saw- messing with the Seeker would get you burned. The others were probably about to learn a harsh lesson, if they tried anything. 

The Seeker’s questing gaze finally found me, and there was no more denying that it was me she was after. In retrospect, I thought, going back to Kirkwall had probably been a bad choice. Not if I wanted to stay off the radar. 

“Varric.” Short, but definitely not sweet. The Seeker loomed over me, arms hanging loose at her side. 

“Cassandra.” I tipped my glass in her direction. “Care for a drink or are we skipping straight to the interrogation?”

The Seeker wrinkled her nose. On anyone else, it would’ve been adorable. On the Seeker’s stern face, it was more the look of someone who’s wondering what that smell is. 

“Always charming, Seeker.” I took a drink, slung one arm over the back of my chair, and waited. Either the Seeker would relent, or I’d wind up with a fist in the face. 

With an expression of extreme distaste, the Seeker pulled out the chair opposite mine, and sat down. 

Silence reigned over our table, interrupted by the waitress, and by several intoxicated dancing ladies shimmying by to say hello. 

I’m a patron of the arts, what can I say?

The Seeker watched all the carrying on with a wary, suspicious gaze. Once the girls left, leaving only the scent of cigarettes and perfume behind them, I couldn’t resist giving the Seeker a wink, smiling as I settled back into my chair.

“What brings you to Kirkwall, Seeker? Up for a little R&R? Wondering how the rebuilding was going?” I laughed. Unimpressed, the Seeker gave me a flat look, and I couldn’t resist adding “R&R, Seeker? Means rest and relaxation. I was wondering if you were familiar with the concept.”

Lightning fast, her face darkened like a thundercloud. 

“I am familiar with both, dwarf”, she growled. “I am here on business. On behalf of the Inquisition.”

“That so? What’s so important it merits the Seeker coming all the way out here to chat? Or am I just lucky?” I asked. 

I never could get over how every emotion showed on the Seeker’s face. Made you wonder how she’d risen to be Right Hand of the Divine with such a shitty poker face. 

“It is a sensitive matter”, the Seeker spat out. “The Inquisitor would appreciate your… help.”

“You know if you missed me that much, you could’ve just said so.”

Being a smartass is going to be the death of me, one day. The Seeker’s desire to shake me like a terrier shakes a rat was written across her face so strongly, you’d have to be blind to miss it. 

Subtly, a few bar patrons shifted, prepared for whatever was going to happen next. For a moment, the bar was on edge, waiting to see what the Seeker would do.

“On behalf of the Inquisition, I am to… partner with you and solve our current problem. Quietly.” the Seeker gritted out. “It is a delicate matter. One we do not wish to spread, and one which you have a personal stake in.”

Well. Shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was honestly meant as a true noir au instead of a slightly more noir Dragon Age fic. Varric always makes me think of a snarky film noir protagonist stuck in the wrong genre.


	9. Dragon Age Noir 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric finds out what's up, Cassandra is still not impressed.
> 
> EDIT: The continuation of this fic can be found in "Dragon Age Noir'

“Is there nowhere we can speak in private?” the Seeker asked, peevishly. Around us, the respectable patrons of the Hanged Man were doing their best impression of people who weren’t eavesdropping.

“I have rooms upstairs, Seeker. If I’d known I’d be having visitors, I’d have cleaned up the place.” I said, watching the Seeker’s frown deepen. She was going to wind up stuck that way, one day.

 

“How can I resist such a… tempting offer?” I said loudly, standing and smirking at the Seeker. “Sam! A round for the bar, to celebrate!” Our watchers turned back to their drinks, their gambling, and their dancing girls.

 

The look of poorly stifled rage on the Seeker’s face didn’t bode well for me, but she had never been a harbinger of good fortune for me, anyways.

 

“Coming, Seeker?” I headed towards the back stairs, trusting that the Seeker would follow me, if only so she could kick my ass in private.

 

Opening my door, I ushered the Seeker through with a little bow. Her face contorted strangely, as I followed her through and lit the lamps.

 

Politely, I ignored her expression of disbelief, though it was always a fulfilling feeling to have one over the Seeker. The suite I’d claimed for my own was opulent. Plush carpets, ornate furniture, the works.

 

“Well then. You going to tell me what all this is about?” I crossed the room and sprawled in the armchair behind my desk. The Seeker took about a half second to adjust her face back to its usual disdain, before shunning the other chair in favour of towering over my desk.

 

“I have no patience for your usual… impudence.” The Seeker said.

 

I was pretty sure I could guess what word she’d omitted in favour of impudence. So of course I slouched further in my armchair, and watched as the Seeker’s eyes flicked down to the open neck of my shirt.

 

“My eyes are up here, Seeker.”

 

“Must you always be so... “ she gestured wordlessly at my tunic.

 

“Roguishly handsome? Chiseled and manly? Virile?” I suggested.

 

The Seeker muttered something unflattering about my ancestors in Nevarran, and sat down.

 

“Enough of your foolishness, Varric.” In the light thrown by the lamps, the Seeker’s face was even sharper hewn than usual. “The Inquisition has sent me here because of this… and some rumours.”

 

The Seeker pulled a slim box, about the size of a cigar box, made of metal, and placed it on my desk. I reached over and flipped open the lid. Heavier than I’d expected, and when I saw the small idol inside, I was confused.

 

“Bringing me presents, Seeker?” The painted idol of Andraste sat in its case, utterly inoffensive. "Am I being wooed?"

 

The Seeker grunted in exasperation.

 

“Do you never think before you talk, dwarf?”

 

I dragged the box closer. Still only a small, crude idol of Andraste.

 

It called to me, somewhere in the back of my mind I could hear the faintest whisper of a song.

 

“Seeker, tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

 

“I cannot. It is the only one of its kind we have found whole. Idols of Andraste, carved from red lyrium.”

 

“Fuck.” I sat back in my chair, and pushed the idol back to the Seeker. “Why the hell did you bring that with you?”

 

“As I said, it is the only one we have found whole. Dagna has taken a sample of it, but requires more information.” The Seeker closed the box’s lid, and the singing stopped. “Though she did create the box, a slimmer version of traditional dwarven lyrium containers.”

 

A wry smile crossed the Seeker’s face, and I was pretty sure I didn’t like it.

 

“She says it ought to prevent us from the effects of the red lyrium. Probaby.”

 

“Ancestors.” I trusted Dagna, insofar as you can trust anyone that smart. But red lyrium had done worse to smarter people. “And we’re supposed to just carry that thing around with us?”

 

“I will keep it, if the idol bothers you that much, Varric.” the Seeker said. “I did not forget the circumstances of our first meeting.”

 

“Ever replace that copy of Tale of the Champion? You know, the one with the big dagger through it?” I asked.

 

“I...did not. As you well know, Varric.” the Seeker shifted in her seat, and if I didn’t know better, I would’ve said she was a little embarrassed.  “Regardless. The Inquisitor has requested we find the source of the red lyrium, how they’re creating this protective coating, and why.”

“Big job.” Too big for two people.

  
“The information we’ve managed to gather suggests there is a lead here in Kirkwall. Dagna is certain the protective coating could only be the work of a mage.” The Seeker looked around her, “We are to find whether there is any mage with Venatori sympathies in the city. Past that, it is up to our own discretion, and whether it merits additional agents from the Inquisition.”

 

I sighed. Talk about your thankless jobs. Seemed not much had changed, since I’d left the Inquisition behind. The Inquisitor was still aiming for patron saint of lost causes. And bees, if Sera had a say.

 

The Seeker tucked the box back into a pocket of her suit, and stood up. “I will find you tomorrow, Varric. Early.”

 

“You’ll find me asleep, then.” I retorted.

 

The Seeker shot me a scathing look, one no doubt reserved for layabouts who weren’t up at the crack of dawn every day.

 

“Early, Varric. I have no desire to stay in this city longer than needed.” With that, the Seeker turned on her heel and left.

 

Brusque, as always. Cassandra had no tact. Nice to see some things never changed, I thought. Well, if I was going to spend however long with one surly Seeker, hunting down some crazed assholes who thought dealing with red lyrium was a brilliant idea, I damn well wasn’t going to spend my last free night worrying about it all.

 

Back in the Hanged Man’s main room, the crowd greeted me with a roar. Amazing what friendship free drinks will buy you. Picking up a drink of my own, I settled in to enjoy the raucous joy of music and dance. One last night before everything went to shit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if I ought to make this its own fic, because this is probably going to be long. Hope you guys enjoy this! Thank you for reading!


	10. A Doomed Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from geeky-jez's Signs of Affection:Romance Prompt Meme on tumblr.

The Hissing Wastes were by far the worst place in all of Thedas. Hot, sticky, and full of sand during the day, icy cold and still full of sand at night. Setting up camp for the night had been a relief, and Varric wanted only to fall onto his sandy bedroll and sleep.

 

Of course, instead of sleep he was stuck staring at the canvas tent overhead, listening to the wind and animals howling out in the darkness. Probably they were annoyed with all the sand, as well. With a quiet groan, Varric rolled on his stomach and buried his face in his arms.

 

_Sharp silver in the harsh light, red blood, the Seeker’s lips drawn back from her teeth._

 

Nothing a potion hadn’t cured. A new scar to keep the others company. Why that memory kept replaying was a goddamn irritating mystery. The thought equivalent of a stone in your boot.

 

Varric closed his eyes, and saw her profile instead. Beautiful, always so beautiful and out of his reach. Nothing to do but watch her back, teach her card games and trickery, any excuse to spend a few moments together. To memorize the curve of her nose, admire the beauty of her hands- elegant fingers, delicate wrists, light and shadow playing across them in the evening light while they play cards. It aches. It aches so badly, festers in his chest and there doesn’t seem to be an end to it.  

 

Heartsick. At his age. It was humiliating, and part of him hated it, hated himself for this foolish infatuation. With all the pain in the world, he had to bring himself more, loving a woman who didn’t love him back.

 

He’d never been smart about women.

 

“Fuck it.” Shoving himself upright, Varric pulled his tunic back on and left the tent for the chill desert air.

 

Silver white moonlight lit the dunes of the Hissing Wastes, and in its stark beauty there was a little peace to be found. There is something about the emptiness that echoes in Varric’s chest.

 

“Varric?” He’d know her voice anywhere. The way she says his name makes his heart flutter.

 

“Seeker.” Sometimes he forgets, calls her Cassandra. It’s something he can’t allow, it makes her more than her nickname. The line between Seeker and Cassandra is thin, but it’s one he can’t bear to cross too often.

 

They sit in silence. For once he hasn’t anything smart to say, Cassandra is standing next to him, so close he can feel the heat of her body and the distance between them acutely.

“On patrol or do you just never sleep?” Varric asks, “If you say you just never sleep, I win a sovereign off Buttercup.”

 

The Seeker stares down at him, and just barely smiles.

 

“I’ll buy you a drink, if you do?” Varric wheedles, more from habit than anything else.

 

If he can pretend everything’s normal, maybe it will be normal.

 

Cassandra gives him that unimpressed look of hers, but there’s fondness behind it, and in the way she shakes her head and smiles when she thinks he’s not looking.

 

“I do not sleep,” Cassandra says.

 

The Seeker. Varric has to remind himself. Seeker. Not Cassandra.

 

“Hah! I owe you a drink, Seeker.” Varric says. “Didn’t know you could be bribed.”

 

“It isn’t untrue,” the Seeker shrugs. “I do not sleep, right now.”

 

Startled, Varric laughs. It’s louder than he meant in the quiet of the sleeping camp.

 

“Perhaps we should walk? If you are not tired?” Seeker asks, and Varric can’t think of anything else he’d rather do than walk in the moonlight with Cassandra. There are a thousand reasons why he shouldn’t, and none of them matter.

 

They walk, sliding a little in the loose sand. The moon is huge in the sky, almost overwhelmingly so.

 

“It is almost close enough to touch.” Cassandra says, and there is a little wonder in her voice.

 

Varric looks at the moon, and longs. He is no closer to touching the moon than he is to touching Cassandra’s hand.

 

Cassandra’s head is tilted back, the silver moonlight limns her features, brushes her skin and tangles in her hair.

 

Tearing his eyes from her, beautiful and fierce and untouchable, Varric sits and braces his back against a boulder. The stars are no less beautiful, no less distant, but at least he can look at them without feeling his heart twist.

 

Cassandra sits next to him, their arms touch and Varric can’t bring himself to move.

 

“Seeker?” It’s quiet, except for their breathing, and Varric can feel something in the air, something that pulls at him.

 

Sitting, they’re much nearer to eye level than usual, and when Cassandra looks at him, Varric recognizes the expression on her face, the same expression he sees in the mirror every day.

 

It has to be wishful thinking.

 

Unbidden, his gaze slips to her mouth.

 

“Varric.”

 

Cassandra’s gloved hand brushes against his. Varric can feel his heart pounding in his chest, so loud Cassandra has to hear it, so loud she must be able to feel it, vibrating through the ground.

 

He can’t look her in the eyes, focusing instead on her scarred cheek.

 

He can’t look her in the eyes, except that he wants to. Wants to see if he was right, and doesn’t. Suddenly it’s too much, either way.

 

Their hands are still touching.

 

Varric darts a quick look at the Seeker, and is stuck. Undone.

 

“Cassandra.”

 

Between one breath and the next, the space between them closes.

 

“You… you don’t even like me.” Varric says, plaintive. Cassandra’s forehead rests against his, he can feel her hair, her breath a whisper against his skin.

 

“I could say the same thing, Varric.” And it’s true, she could. He’s tried so hard to hide himself away. “Hopeless, isn’t it?”

 

Her mouth is so close, Varric can’t help but press a kiss against it.

 

“Entirely. A human-” Her mouth closes over his, hungry “and a dwarf?”

  
“A lying rogue, and a Seeker-” Varric interrupts her with another kiss, “Absolutely hopeless.”

 

They kiss, messy and starving, hands touching, tangling, caressing.

 

The weight in Varric’s chest lifts, he can breathe again for the first time in what feels like years. Every kiss, every touch is a gift, a blessing he can’t possibly merit.

 

They’re doomed, and Varric couldn’t care less.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day everyone!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric's sleeveless armour is distracting

“This wouldn’t have happened if you’d worn armour that had _sleeves_ , Varric.” Cassandra said, giving the dwarf a stern look.

 

“If you hadn’t pissed off that giant, I’d still have my old armour, Seeker.”  Varric griped, wincing as Cassandra cleaned the cuts across his side. “Complete with sleeves.”

 

“I was not the one who drew the attention of the giant!” Cassandra growled.

  
Varric snorted with derision.

 

“Nor was it my fault you decided to fight a great bear, Varric.” Cassandra said, “In sleeveless armour.”

 

“If you weren’t hell bent on ridding Thedas of bears, I wouldn’t have been fighting a great bear!” Varric said, staring at the Seeker’s bowed head. Her hair was plastered to her head, soaking wet like the rest of her. Like both of them, really.

 

The Seeker gave him an exceedingly unimpressed look, and scrubbed out the gashes in his side with more enthusiasm than strictly necessary, in Varric’s opinion.

 

Cassandra’s strong hands wrung out the cloth she’d been using to clean the wounds left by the great bear’s claws, the water running rusty brown.

 

“Remove the rest of your shirt, Varric.” the Seeker commanded.

 

“Usually you’d have to buy me dinner first, Seeker.” Varric quipped, moving to peel the rest of the shredded fabric off.

 

“Ah, fuck!” Varric grimaced at the sudden burst of pain.

 

Sighing, Cassandra batted Varric’s hands out of the way, and took hold of the sodden cloth herself.

 

Gripping the cloth of Varric’s shirt on either side of a long tear, Cassandra ripped the fabric further, and slid it off Varric’s shoulders.

 

A witty remark stalled on Varric’s tongue. The Seeker’s cold hands followed the cuts and bruises the great bear’s claws had left on his side.

 

“I do not think anything’s broken, Varric.” Cassandra said, voice quiet. Against all reason, Varric could’ve sworn her hands lingered a little longer against his ribs than they needed to.

 

“I’m glad.” He said, simply. Outside the small cave they’d holed up in, the storm still raged. Rain whipped the ground, obscuring everything beyond three feet from the cave’s entrance.

 

Wherever they were, Varric hoped Sparkler and the Inquisitor had found the camp.

 

At his side, Cassandra was stripping out of her outer shirt, breastplate and padded jacket already discarded at their feet.

 

“Isn’t this all a bit sudden, Seeker? I’m flattered, but spoken for.” Varric said, the words sounding hollow to his own ears.

 

The noise of disgust from Cassandra was muffled by her shirt, stuck over her head. While she struggled, Varric was confronted with the discovery that the Seeker wore a very delicate looking chemise. Trimmed with lace, of all things.  Finally, with a firm yank the trapped fabric pulled free, leaving the Seeker’s hair sticking up in spikes.

 

“Do not be absurd, dwarf.” With efficient movements, Cassandra began tearing the fabric into long strips. A pile of destroyed shirt landed in Varric’s lap, as Cassandra knelt in front of him.

 

Leaning forward, Cassandra pressed the largest remaining piece of shirt against Varric’s side. With the other hand, she looped a fabric strip around his torso.

 

Her breath was warm. It brushed against his collarbones, and Varric could feel it when she huffed in frustration at the makeshift bandages. Whenever she moved, the short strands of Cassandra’s hair tickled his cheek. It was distracting as hell.

 

Varric let out a slow breath.

 

Cassandra leaned back to tie the bandage off, and reached for a new strip of fabric. Her hand glanced along his thigh, and when the Seeker leaned in close once more, Varric’s heart thumped.

 

“I ever tell you about the time Hawke fought a templar in his pyjamas?” Varric asked into the silence.

 

Cassandra looked at him, excitement sparkling in her eyes. “No, I don’t think you did.” She wound another loop of fabric around Varric’s ribs.

 

“Well, how that templar wound up in Hawke’s pyjamas, I don’t know.” Varric said.

 

Cassandra’s fingers lost their on the last bandage as she laughed. “Maker. Hold _still_ , Varric!”

 

Adjusting the strip of fabric, Cassandra’s fingers lingered along Varric’s side for a moment. Testing to make sure the bandaging was tight enough, she told herself.

 

Certainly not because he was warm, despite being half naked and soaked to the skin in a cave.

 

“That ought to hold until we can rejoin the Inquisitor.” Cassandra said, sitting back on her heels, and surveying her patient.

 

Maker’s breath.

 

Feeling her cheeks flush, Cassandra averted her gaze from Varric’s chest. It wasn’t as though she’d never seen it before. Half of Thedas had seen Varric’s chest hair. Until he’d donned that ridiculous armour, Cassandra had assumed nothing about Varric would surprise her. She’d certainly never thought the sight of Varric’s bare arms and shoulders would be so _distracting_.

 

The dwarf had nice arms. Very nice arms, strongly muscled, and lightly dusted with ginger hair.

 

“Seeker?” Varric’s voice broke the silence.

 

“Is the bandaging uncomfortable?”  Cassandra asked, when Varric said nothing further.

 

“Not at all. Missed your calling as a healer, Seeker.”  Varric laughed. Cassandra was still kneeling in front of him, clad in a thin chemise. Suddenly very aware of being half naked, Varric’s heart gave another heavy thunk against his ribs.

  
Ancestors help him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to the anon who requested this, I hope you find it satisfactory!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "A sexual touch in a non sexual place" 
> 
> Featuring awkward dorks and hand holding

The Seeker is a hard woman, Varric knows. Of course, he also knows that’s not quite true, but (extravagant or otherwise) Varric lies a lot. Cassandra probably couldn’t lie to save her life, if she could, he’d never have found out she reads Swords and Shields. It’s no wonder she’s terrible at Wicked Grace, everything she thinks shows up on her face. That anyone could be so terrible at Wicked Grace is a sin against all that is good in the world, and Varric decides that while the Inquisitor’s got him running around doing good deeds, he may as well add one more to the list. Cassandra seems less than pleased at his reasoning, but still shows up at Varric’s door that night, so she can’t be too unhappy.

 

Hopefully she doesn’t stab his deck.

 

Varric starts her off on the basics- all the suits, their ranks, moves on to the ranking of different hands. The Seeker isn’t _terrible_ she just… isn’t good. How the hell Cassandra can be one of the scariest Seekers and not grasp Wicked Grace is a little puzzling.

 

“Seeker, let me see.” Varric coaxes. Cassandra glowers at him, holding her bruised hand close to her chest.

  
“I am fine, Varric. Continue.” she snaps, and really that’s the most frustrating thing about Cassandra. Even if she’s hurting, she doesn’t stop. Relaxation doesn’t seem to be in her vocabulary at all.

 

“You punched a table. That’s not exactly fine, Seeker.” Varric says, temper wearing a bit thin. Cassandra is not the best student. Too bull-headed, no appreciation for the long game. She’d make a terrible con, which is probably why she’s a better Seeker.

 

They stare eachother down, Cassandra’s dark eyes simmering with annoyance. Varric just assumes a negligent pose and waits. He’s not a particularly patient dwarf, but compared to the Seeker, he’s a paragon of patience.

 

Without a word, Cassandra thrusts her gloved hand across the table.

 

Well, if she wants to be stubborn about it, Varric thinks, he can indulge her.

 

Varric takes the Seeker’s hand in his, and loosens the buckles keeping it clamped to her arm. Everything about Cassandra is so buttoned up. Armoured. It’s possible he’s thinking about this too much, Varric tells himself as he slides the glove from the Seeker’s injured hand.

 

Cassandra has nice hands. Long fingers, smooth knuckles, short, blunt nails. Her middle finger and ring finger are crooked past the last knuckle, and a ragged scar runs across them both.  She’s definitely busted the skin over her knuckles, and her index finger might be jammed. Other than that, the table seems to have come out the loser in their little disagreement. There are divots in the wood from the rivets on Cassandra’s gloves.

 

Varric turns Cassandra’s hand over, runs his thumb across her palm. She dealt the table one hell of a hit, after all. Besides, it’s a strong hand. A good reference for his writing. Which is why he hasn’t let it go yet.

  
The thought that he might be lying to himself briefly crosses Varric’s mind. Cassandra’s hand is cool in his, resting gently against his fingers. Like this, ungloved and still, it’s easy to notice the differences in their hands. Despite being head and shoulders shorter than the Seeker, his hand dwarfs hers (ha ha). Blunt, thick fingers, clumsy looking compared to Cassandra’s.

 

Varric’s thumb has taken on a life of its own and is stroking slow, small circles at the base of the Seeker’s wrist.

 

“Varric.” Cassandra rasps out. She’s a little flushed, Varric notes. It is a bit warm in his room. Warmer than usual.

 

“You’ll be punching tables in no time” is what Varric says into the silence that presses in on them both. Slipping his hand away from Cassandra’s, Varric tosses her her glove, and shuffles the Wicked Grace deck. “Another hand?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt "A sexual touch in a non sexual place" featuring naked people, and head rubs. Possibly a bit nsfw? Barely?

Cassandra smiled fondly at Varric’s sleeping face. Early morning light gilded his unbound hair and skin, softened the lines of strain around his eyes. He hadn’t been sleeping well since Hawke’s death, staying up late writing. There were a few times when Cassandra rose to go about her day, only to find that Varric had slept at his desk, or that he’d crawled into bed still ink smeared and clothed. It was a relief, Cassandra thought, that it was impossible for him to dream.

 

As though aware of her thoughts, Varric half woke and rolled over, a small noise escaping his throat as he nuzzled into Cassandra’s neck. Amused, and a bit touched (such a vulnerable little noise) Cassandra brought one hand up to stroke Varric’s hair. It was probably a little silly how much she enjoyed his hair, Cassandra thought. Slowly, she rubbed her fingers against Varric’s scalp, dipping downwards to caress the nape of his neck.

 

“Mmnn” Varric’s lips moved against her collarbone, a soft breath brushing her skin and sending a little shiver down Cassandra’s spine.

Sliding her fingers back up to Varric’s scalp, Cassandra continued her ministrations, softly but firmly. Outside their window, the sky was bright with the promise of a beautiful day, and Skyhold was coming awake. Lying in bed with her lover, while the rest of the keep was beginning its day was a strange sort of thrill. A gift. One Cassandra had not expected to find within the Inquisition, and particularly not with the man currently wrapped around her.

 

It was in the unexpected that the Maker showed his hand, and Cassandra felt truly blessed to have found love that made her heart swell and soar. To share that love, to feel it reciprocated each day… It was a gift whose value was beyond measure.

 

Ducking her head down, Cassandra pressed a kiss to Varric’s forehead.

 

Strong arms tightened around her waist, soft lips pressed a light kiss against her shoulder.

 

“Mmnn...ever tell you you have incredible fingers?” Varric muttered sleepily.

 

Cassandra huffed a soft laugh, and smoothed Varric’s rumpled hair down. “Not today.”

 

“S’early still?”

 

“Excuses, excuses, dwarf.” Cassandra said teasingly, then yelped as Varric nipped at her neck.

 

“I’m a bad influence on you, Seeker.” Varric grinned, sliding a rough palm along Cassandra’s side.

 

“You’re definitely rubbing off on me.” Cassandra agreed, twining her fingers in Varric’s hair.

 

“Nngh...not fair Seeker, straight for my weak spot.” Varric sighed, squirming closer.

 

Cassandra continued, gently massaging Varric’s scalp until he began pressing kisses to her throat, one large hand skating down her flank to pull them closer together. With a soft moan, Cassandra slid her hand down Varric’s back, and urged him upwards, pressing a kiss against his mouth.

 

“Going to skip training this morning?” Varric asked, smiling against Cassandra’s mouth.

  
“Only if you’re very convincing.” Cassandra laughed, gasping as Varric’s kisses began trailing lower.


	14. Unrequited

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fill for a "Love Triangle" prompt on tumblr.

Varric remembers love, remembers when Bianca was the guiding star of his life, when time apart from her set all his skin aflame with need, and only her touch soothed it. In all their scattered, misplaced years, the burning is what he holds onto. He stays because he can’t leave, can’t forsake the woman who still burns like a brand in his memory.

 

Varric doesn’t stop holding on, but the world is hard, and he hardens his heart against it. Slowly, so slowly he doesn’t notice, the memory of Bianca is no longer a flame, only a calcified remnant. He remembers her the way you might remember a love story you once read. Something that happened to other people long ago, in a book you’ll never read again.

 

The Seeker is everything that pisses him off- sanctimonious, self righteous, difficult, and passionate. She never does anything by halves, and she cares- deeply, intensely, and inconveniently. Varric finds her too much, entirely too much. There’s no way she can really be who she says she is. No one ever is. This is something the Inquisitor hasn’t caught onto yet, but it’s evident by their first mission out of Haven that the man’s infatuated with her. Probably an after effect of being her prisoner, Varric thinks. Going from Thedas’ most wanted to Herald of Andraste in under a week has to do some weird shit to your head.

 

Varric watches and waits, and tells himself he’s keeping an eye on their fearless leader. He watches Cassandra smash her way through training dummies, bandits, mages, templars, demons, and anything that might be a threat. By the time they’ve hit Skyhold, Varric knows these things for sure- the Inquisitor loves Cassandra, but so does he.

 

However it happened, when it happened, is lost to the mists of time and the tricks of memory. All Varric can think is that he’d been a fool in so many ways. A fool to judge Cassandra, to discount the Inquisitor’s heart, and a fool to believe the memory of fire would be enough.

 

Wherever they are, his eyes always find Cassandra, the Seeker is his lodestone. She’s still blunt and self righteous and sharp tongued, but there’s so much more to her. Things Varric discovers every day, he can’t believe he never saw before. Cassandra has a kind heart, a sharp wit, and a dry sense of humour. She’s indefatigable in battle, and passionate in her beliefs.

 

It isn’t until the Inquisitor asks him to write Swords and Shields for her that he realizes Cassandra has an awkward side, and a romantic soul. It’s worth it to see her so nakedly happy, even if it is the result of his worst book and the Inquisitor’s charms.

 

While Varric’s been hiding, the Inquisitor has been busy and Cassandra laughs when they talk, blushes and smiles. The man’s clearly well on his way to being madly in love, and damn him but Varric is jealous.

 

Jealousy is a great motivator, and so Varric finds himself fighting at Cassandra’s side whenever possible, gratified by the way the move together. In battle he and Cassandra make one hell of a team, though Varric always waits to rush in until Cassandra needs help. Justifies it to himself as aiding a friend.

 

Justifying it to the Inquisitor isn’t as easy. Especially since Varric’s been incautious lately, has been allowing himself too close to Cassandra.  

 

After that, tension crackles in the air, and Varric wonders if it was wise to piss off the Herald of Andraste. Probably not, but Varric wouldn’t sacrifice his tentative friendship with Cassandra if the Maker himself came down and begged on bended knee.

 

They don’t have much of a friendship, but every bit of it is precious.

 

Eventually, as they’re bound to do, things come to a head. Mostly because Cassandra forces his hand in that clumsy, forthright way of hers that shows she really cares.

 

Of course, taking a blow aimed for him isn’t the most romantic gesture- Varric’s heart stops cold in his chest when the bandit’s mace strikes Cassandra’s armoured ribs and her head strikes the ground as she crumples, but it’s very Cassandra- something Varric scolds her for while pouring a potion down her throat. Mostly he’s running his mouth for the sake of it, they’re safely behind some boulders while the Inquisitor and Vivienne finish the fight, so no one can hear him but Cassandra, and she’s out cold.

 

Hes in the middle of a tirade about how if she ever scares him like that again, not only will he never write another Swords and Shields, but she’ll have to be responsible for reducing his lifespan by decades, and then what? When he realizes Cassandra’s awake and giving him a very confused look, touched with hurt.

 

Some quip about how he’s sorry the Inquisitor was unavailable for grand heroic rescues falters on his lips when Cassandra, eyes still a little unfocused brushes her fingers against his jaw, as though she’s not sure she should.

 

Cassandra might not have found Hawke, but that doesn’t mean she’s not smart, and Varric can see understanding in her eyes as she puts the pieces together.

 

“There you lot are! Leaving us all the hard work as usual, i see,” the Inquisitor says, jovial and bloodstained.

 

Whatever had been in Cassandra’s eyes dims, and Varric feels the loss acutely as she pulls herself up and away from him.

 

Whatever it had been was the result of a serious injury, Varric tells himself, trying to obliterate her warmth and weight and scent from his mind, struggling to remember them.

 

Later, Cassandra looks at him and Varric looks away, looks back to see her chatting with the Inquisitor and their campsite is too small, too close, the fire’s too bright and too hot. Vivienne’s gaze is too uncomfortably knowing.

 

That night the ground is cold and hard, the moonlight silvery bright, the night chirp and chime obscenely. Varric’s outside, his aching eyes seek out the constellations, while his heart yearns. At the very least, no one is awake to see his humiliating misery, cold comfort but that’s alright. Some drunk Orlesian once told him there’s no creature more wretched than a lover, and Varric vehemently agrees.

 

“You don’t like me, “ a clipped Nevarran voice says “You’ve never-”

 

“I know,” Varric says, and shrugs.

 

“Why didn’t you say something. Did you think I wouldn’t realize?” Her voice quavers, and Varric can recognize pain, and anger when he hears it.

 

“Varric,” Cassandra starts, then cuts herself off.

 

Andraste curse him for a fool.

 

 


	15. Things You Said Too Quietly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra takes a serious hit during battle. There are few things she regrets, except for the things she has let go unsaid.

There are, Cassandra thinks through the pain, a great many things she said much too quietly. Things she only said loud enough for herself to hear.

Too little, too late.

With a wince at the wetness, the rattling, wheezing sound that accompanies every breath, Cassandra pushes herself upright. The sharp, awful pain in her right side, where her right arm hangs limp and useless, causes her vision to swim.

The giant’s meaty fist had sent her flying, Cassandra remembers. Which is how she wound up in an awkward tangle of armour, limbs, and tree branches at the bottom of a ravine. From the feel of it, Cassandra’s also fairly certain her helmet (currently hanging off a branch) didn’t keep her from a serious head injury. Whatever happened, she’s bleeding quite a bit, and that’s no good at all.

From up somewhere beyond the ravine, battle rages on- the ozone tang of Lavellan’s magic, the heavy thump of a crossbow bolt sliding home. Bull’s entirely inappropriate war cry, and the wounded pain riddled bellow of the giant. As it collapses, its death throes shake the ground. A slide of mud and rocks slither down the side of the ravine. Cassandra, dizzy and tangled in branches, is trapped beneath it. Something heavy bounces off her head.

Seeker training has seen her through injuries that would cripple or kill a common person, but even Cassandra can’t shrug off being flung across the glade like a rag doll.   
  


Between one shaky, sticky breath and another, Cassandra slides into unconsciousness.

“Cassandra!” Someone’s calling her name. A woman, frantic with worry.

_Mother?_ Cassandra thinks muzzily. _No, that’s not right._

Her brain can’t quite make the connection between the voice and the right name.

_There was someone I wanted to… I needed to say something._

Large hands worm their way between Cassandra’s body and the debris she’s trapped under, careful to cradle her head.

“It’s okay, Boss,” the voice rumbles, low and soft.

_Not the right voice. Not the one…_

Movement drags a moan from her lips, quiet and utterly pained. It hurts it hurts and being jostled about brings bile up in her throat.

 

“She’s alright?” the woman says.

_Lavellan._ The name swims up into Cassandra’s thoughts. _Lavellan. The Inquisitor_.

Pieces of memory slide around in Cassandra’s aching head. The Iron Bull’s hands are the ones which curve delicately around her, so careful.

“Varric” Cassandra tries the name out. It was important. Not the name, the person.

Someone’s sharp intake of breath reminds her.

_Late nights, a fire._

_Warm hands, warm mouth. Smiling eyes._

_His rough gasp when they’d-_

“Varric?” Cassandra says around the pain in her chest and the endless din in her brain.

An ice cold hand brushes against her forehead, fingertips trailing her cheekbone.

“Hey, Seeker,” Varric says, the smallest tremble in his voice.

“Love you,” Cassandra mumbles, slipping into silence.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt taken from tumblr, requested by the dear taokan.


	16. Things You Said When We Were The Happiest We Ever Were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric has a question, Cassandra knows the answer.

“Yes.”

Varric stared at Cassandra, mouth agape.

  
“Did you say yes?” He managed, around a sudden dryness in his throat.

 

“I do not wish to repeat myself, Varric,” Cassandra said sternly, mirth glinting in her eyes.

“Even if I ask nicely?” Varric wheedled, tangling her fingers in his.

  
Cassandra smiled, in the full blown unabashed way he loved to watch. Her smile lit up a room, sent warmth coursing through his veins.

“Even if you beg,” Cassandra smirked.

The shock was beginning to wear off, and Varric felt himself smiling back, a huge face splitting grin that threatened to crack his head in two. Cassandra wrapped her hand around the back of his neck, warm and callused. Leaning in, Varric pressed his lips against hers, trying to smile and kiss her at the same time.

“You’re a hard woman, Seeker,” Varric said against her skin, nuzzling against Cassandra’s neck, letting the smell of her invade his senses.

“You love me anyways,” Cassandra teased.

“I do,” Varric agreed.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Hunter on the Swords, Shields and a Crossbow thread on the Bioware forum, who was instrumental in my deciding to join. From a prompt on tumblr.


	17. Enraptured

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Trying to sneak back into the Herald's Rest, Varric stumbles upon something surprising.

Night at Skyhold was Varric’s favourite part of living in the middle of the Frostbacks. It was pretty well the only thing he really liked about the place. Sure, the keep was a very nice example of...keepness, and the people who flocked to the Inquisition were all fascinating, with their own stories, and their fresh faced willingness to join a cause, but it was too much. At night, with the stars bright and close, Varric found himself drawn to the ramparts, to sit with a flask and watch the stars. No one except the guards to bother him, and really they weren’t a bother. Too busy earnestly guarding Skyhold.

Overhead, the stars shone and the sky was a riot of colours, and wasn’t that a hell of a thing? Kirkwall had been a mess of light and smoke, only a few stars had dared show themselves, and even then their light was reserved for the wealthy.

Maudlin. He was getting maudlin, Varric scolded himself.

Taking another sip from his flask, Varric stood with a soft groan and stretched. Joints popped and crackled, which felt good but was probably not so great for his bones.

Time to head in, Varric told himself. No one liked a morose dwarf, himself least of all.

Luckily the tavern had an entrance from the ramparts, attached to what had once been a bedroom. For the bartender? Varric wondered. Or had the Herald’s Rest been something else before they’d taken it over? A home, perhaps. Peeling the door to the tavern open, Varric stopped dead in the doorway. That was something you didn’t see every day. Or at all, really.

Cassandra spending time with Cole? Well, stranger things had been known to happen.

Still, even with the expansive brim of the kid’s hat in the way, Varric could tell he was enraptured by whatever Cassandra was saying.

He _had_ to get a closer look. Just to see what the hell had the kid so hooked. Couldn’t be the Seeker’s charming personality.

Quietly, Varric snuck closer, using the storage crates as cover.

Cassandra’s voice was soft, softer than he’d ever heard it. Whatever she was telling Cole, it was important to her, clearly. Crouched behind a crate, Varric strained his ears to catch more of Cassandra’s voice.Finally, either the noise from the tavern quieted, or Cassandra raised her voice enough for Varric to understand what she was doing. 

 

Cassandra wasn’t talking to Cole. She was _reading_ to him.

Reading Swords and Shields to him.

Varric quashed his first thought. Cassandra wouldn’t appreciate his interruption, and besides, she was reading to the kid. Treating him like a person.

Cassandra continued, her voice changing in pitch until even Varric’s nerves were wound tight, wondering if the Knight-Captain would be alright.

Hidden behind the crates, Varric sat down and uncorked his flask again. Cassandra’s voice flowed over him, reciting his careless words with an intense emotion.

 

With passion.

 

No one could accuse the Seeker of being cold, she was the most passionate woman he’d ever met. It was harsh, though. White hot like iron too long in the fire. The fervour of the righteous.

 

Here, reading his trashy romance serial to Cole, the Seeker transformed.

 

 _Cassandra’s_ passions smouldered like an ember. Through her, the Knight-Captain’s speeches became the impassioned pleas of a woman in the most desperate throes of unrequited love. Every word throbbed with emotion.

As Cassandra continued to read, Varric made himself comfortable behind the crates.

****

“You speak, and he forgets, then remembers. Beautiful, like the night sky,” Cole said.

His eyes were fixed somewhere over her right shoulder, so Cassandra didn’t bother looking. It was probably a stray thought from someone in the tavern below. Not skipping a beat, she turned the page and read on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally from a prompt on tumblr. An anon asked for a fic where Varric finds Cassandra's voice alluring.


	18. One Night Stand

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For twilighthawke who requested "5. One night stand and falling pregnant" on the AU meme.

“Go back to Kirkwall, Varric.” Cassandra looks tired, worn around the edges and a little pale. “You are free from us.” 

It takes him a moment to figure out which statement should offend him more. The insinuation that he’s been chomping at the bit to finally be rid of the Inquisition, that he’ll shoot off like an arrow from a bow the second he was released. Maker’s ass it makes him furious. 

“Free from all of my friends, thank the Maker,” Varric says. Nothing about his tone suggests that the rein he holds on his temper is fraying. 

“I had thought you would be pleased.” 

Cassandra’s voice is as pale and tired as she looks. Her tone’s hard, and anyone else would be fooled by it, wouldn’t see how she’s forcing herself. 

Hell. She’s forcing herself. Now that Varric sees it, it’s written clearly in every straining line of her body. There’s something she doesn’t want him to know. Something he should know because otherwise she’d never hide it. 

“Never thought I’d see the day where you wanted me to be angry at you, Seeker.” 

His words stop her cold. Her defences sag, but her posture is straight, austere. Whatever she’s decided he doesn’t need to know, she’s determined to keep him at arm’s length. 

Her hand is small in his. Dainty, though she’d roll her eyes if he dared say it. She’s not a frail maiden, not by human standards. But seeing the fine bones of her hand, how thin and soft her skin is despite the callouses, it breaks something in him every time. 

The surprise of contact makes Cassandra pause, and Varric takes every advantage of that. He closes his hand around hers, and they both know she could cast him off if she liked. She’s always been the stronger one. She follows his lead, down to the seat next to him where they sit side to side. They don’t speak. Varric holds Cassandra’s hand, strokes his thumb along her palm. He can feel her body, warm without her armour, but rigid. Breathing slow and steady. 

“I care about my friends, Seeker.” 

Cassandra’s breath stutters. 

Varric continues on, not looking at her but staring at a point somewhere on the far wall. 

“That’s the thing about friends, Seeker. They talk to each other. Help each other.” 

Darting a glance at Cassandra’s profile, Varric continues on, eases himself a little closer to her.   
“We’re there for each other.” 

Cassandra sags into his side, and brings a torrent of memories with her. He can smell her hair, her skin. The heaviness of her body pressed against his. His stupid heart leaps, and Varric has to remind himself that this isn’t the time. That it will never be the time. They had one night, and that will be the end of it.

When she decides to speak, Varric can feel her palms go sweaty. 

“I’m pregnant.”

He can’t have heard right. There’s no way. They’d both agreed that the likelihood of a human/dwarf baby was so low as to be impossible, and-

Cassandra’s shoulders shake. 

“Seeker,” Varric says, wraps his arms around her while she cries into his neck.

Tears prick at his own eyes, but the news is still too fresh. Varric expects she’s had more time to come to terms with it, and Maker he wishes things had been different. Wishes he could’ve been at her side when she’d found out. 

“Does anyone else know?” He feels like an ass for asking, but curiosity demands it. He needs to know, needs to know what they’re going to do. 

“Leliana knows,” Cassandra says wetly.

“Leliana knows everything,” Varric agrees. He skates one broad palm up and down the planes of her back. Cassandra shudders another spate of tears, and he crushes them closer together. 

“What do you want to do?” 

Ancestors, this isn’t how he’d imagined holding her again. 

“I don’t know!” Cassandra says in a small voice. 

“We’ll figure it out, Seeker,” Varric tells her, stroking her back until the tears stop.


	19. Parent Teacher Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an anon on tumblr who sent me a request for "Single Parent/Teacher AU"

Cassandra has heard nothing but “Mr Tethras” from her daughter all semester. Mr Tethras tells the best stories, Mr Tethras taught archery at his old school, Mr Tethras writes books. Mr Tethras Mr Tethras Mr Tethras. It was sweet at the beginning of the school year- Cassandra had worried that Aurelia would have a hard time adjusting to a new school- but now it’s time for the end of semester parent-teacher meetings and Cassandra’s patience with Mr Tethras is worn thin. It’s a little absurd, but she’s not used to Aurelia latching on to someone so quickly. Her little girl, so shy and so quiet, who doesn’t make friends easily, adores Mr Tethras with all the intensity of a 6 year old.

 

She isn’t jealous.

 

Being a single parent is hard, harder than she’d thought. But even worse is realizing that she’s become so over protective of her daughter’s affections.

 

Snow falls quietly down around Aurelia’s school, a quaint little building with mature trees and a huge lawn. It’s small, but it’s the best school in Kirkwall and has a waiting list longer than Cassandra is tall. Ascending the wide stone stairs, Cassandra can’t help but remember the first day of school, seeing Aurelia’s stubby pigtails bob as she was swept away and up those same stairs by a cluster of little boys and girls eager to meet the new kid. For her daughter, she can be an adult and put aside her irrational resentment of Mr Tethras.

 

The hall leading to Aurelia’s classroom is covered in children’s artwork. All the children had worked hard, making artwork to hang in the halls and in their classes to impress their parents. It isn’t hard to pick out Aurelia’s handiwork- she’s one of the few children whose family portraits consist of only two people- herself and her mother. Cassandra reaches out a finger to touch the awkward letters that read “Momma” beneath a stick figure with her hairstyle. The braid that circles her portrait’s head is thick, and lopsided, and entirely adorable.

 

“Mrs Pentaghast?” A smooth voice asks from her left elbow.

 

“Ms, actually,” Cassandra corrects automatically, turning to get a good look at the man who’s won her daughter’s admiration.

 

Mr Tethras is short and broad, all sturdy shoulders and barrel chest. Aurelia’s chatter had prepared her for the man’s penchant for vibrant shirts- this one is bright red with swirling gold patterns, loose at the collar. What she isn’t prepared for is how attractive he is. Snowflakes melt in his hair, and Cassandra realizes with a jolt that she’s been staring.

 

“I expected something a little more-” He gestures at his own hair, and darts a quick look at Aurelia’s painting.

 

A laugh escapes her lips, and Cassandra can feel herself flushing.

  
“Varric Tethras,” he says.

 

He smiles, and Cassandra notices the way his lips curl upwards at the edges. She presses her own lips together, unwilling to be charmed by only a few words.

 

“Aurelia’s smart as a whip, Ms Pentaghast,” Varric says as they enter the cheerful classroom.

 

No parent can resist hearing their child praised, and Cassandra cannot help but preen a little at Varric’s remark.

 

“She speaks highly of you Mr Tethras,” she says, “Cannot stop speaking of you, in fact.”

 

This time, it’s Varric who barks out a shocked laugh. “Me? I’m flattered, and surprised. Here, she can’t stop talking about her momma. I was expecting you to fly in, cape fluttering behind you.”

 

“Complete with spandex costume?” Cassandra asks, a wry smile twisting her lips.

 

Varric’s gaze slowly travels down her body, from the top of her head to her booted feet. A blush stains his cheeks, and Cassandra is charmed.

 

“Goes with the territory, doesn’t it?” Varric says, averting his gaze to the pile of papers on his desk.

 

He has freckles, she notices. It adds to his look of roguishness, somehow.

 

Varric pulls a piece of paper out from the pile, and Cassandra recognizes Aurelia’s unsteady printing. The page is blazoned with a colourful portrait of-

 

Oh.

 

It’s always been the two of them. Aurelia, who is practically a miniature of her mother, has never known anything else and Cassandra tries hard to make up for the absence of a father. It’s been hard, with her job and no real family other than her daughter.

 

The page Varric holds is a portrait of Cassandra in her uniform.

 

Varric clears his throat, and they both pretend that she’s not near to crying.

 

“We did an assignment on people we admire. A lot of kids picked cartoon characters, their parents or a sibling, the usual stuff,” Varric says. His voice is rough.  “Aurelia- oh shit, Ms Pentaghast here!”

 

Cassandra accepts the cluster of tissues, clasps them to her leaking eyes.

 

“I apologize Mr Tethras,” she manages, daubing at her eyes.

 

“Nothing to apologize for Ms Pentaghast,” Varric says.

  
Cassandra must be mistaken, but she thinks he hesitates before handing over Aurelia’s work. As though he feels protective of it. It’s two pages in length, and most of the front page is taken up by Aurelia’s portrait of her. In her uniform, Cassandra looks fierce but not intimidating. Maker, she hopes Aurelia isn’t scared of her.

 

The first paragraph rids her of that worry. By the end, Cassandra laughs.

 

“No wonder you thought I would be a superhero,” she tells Varric.

 

“Aurelia certainly thinks so,” he says. “I’d agree but I think I’d need to know you better first. Maybe over coffee?”

 

“Are you… asking me out, Mr Tethras?” Cassandra says, still holding her daughter’s homework.

 

“Varric. And the answer is yes, Ms Pentaghast.”

 

Cassandra hesitates, studies him from across the desk. Varric’s certainly handsome, and undeniably there is something between them. She’d felt it the second they met.

 

“Since Aurelia is an excellent judge of character,” Cassandra says, “I suppose you must call me Cassandra, and I’m free on Saturday.”

 

 


	20. Nothing So Much As You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an anon who requested a high school popular kid/nerd au

Cassandra isn’t. She isn’t popular, isn’t a nerd, isn’t one of the faceless and unremarkable horde. She stands apart from them, and is among them. Everyone knows who she is, and the stories about her run thick and wild. Her only known friend (or associate) was a young man named Regalyan, who left, or passed away. Nobody's quite sure, he’s lost to the past, and to Cassandra’s own ever growing mythos. She’s tall and coltish, but there is the hint of gracefulness about her, the promise of a beauty that will be rooted in her fierceness.

 

Varric should be a nerd. He meets all the criteria- short, with long hair and a face that is politely called non traditionally handsome. Mostly by his friends. He works at the school paper, and is its most prolific contributor. He’s on the archery team. These things, if pop culture is anything to go by, should damn him to the outskirts of high school society. Instead, his glib tongue and facility with words combine with raucous house parties (never at his his house. no one actually knows where Varric lives, and among the many rumours is one that’s nearly true- that he lives with Marian Hawke and her band of emancipated teens), to make him notorious. Not popular, he shuns it with one gesture and courts it with the other, but enormously well liked.

 

They know each other, mostly through reputation and a few poorly timed meetings. She knows Varric ghostwrites the gossip column, and takes one of his pieces a tad too personally. It isn’t the first time Varric’s seen Cassandra angry, or the last time he writes something that pisses her off.

 

This time though, their paths cross in a way that would have Shakespeare himself fit to be tied. The school is putting on a production of “Much Ado About Nothing”, the love of which is something Cassandra and Varric have in common. After the initial auditions, it turns out they have another thing in common- being cast. Cassandra as Beatrice, and Varric as Benedick. They’re the only two non theatre kids who land speaking roles, and the only two non theatre kids who play main characters. The indignity of this is something the tightly knit drama students feel strongly about.

 

By the next week’s rehearsal the drama students behave with stilted good grace. They all seem to have had the fear of Cassandra put into them.

 

Rehearsals show a new side of Cassandra. Given that Varric figured she had only one, it’s a shock. And a little unwelcome. When she’s Beatrice, Varric forgets himself. He flings himself into the role, drawn in by her. They fling arch looks at one another, bring a physicality to the roles that has the director wishing alternately that this year’s play had been “The Taming of the Shrew”, or that they’d stuck to musicals. Cassandra and Varric find another thing in common with one another- they’re tone deaf.

 

“I do love nothing in the world so well as you. Is that not strange?” Varric laughs. There’s an unscripted pause between that line and Cassandra’s cue, where their eyes meet and her tongue ties itself in knots.

 

“Peace. I will stop your mouth.” Energy crackles between them on opening night. The kiss is real enough, both of them retreat from it blushing and pretending it’s not so.

 

The play ends and life goes back to the way it was. Varric returns to Hawke and his friends, who rib him mercilessly about kissing the school’s most terrifying woman. He laughs, and plays it off. The stories about Cassandra swell, she becomes more alone as a result. The tide of bodies parts before her when she walks down the hall.

 

They lose touch.

 

Varric is accepted to a prestigious liberal arts college, takes creative writing classes, and joins the drama association.

 

Midway through his audition for the role of Oberon, Cassandra slips into the theatre.

 

She auditions for Titania.


	21. Anything for Love (but not that)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from the lovely lovesquiddie on tumblr for "falling for your best friend's partner", which I changed around a bit.

The first time, they meet on the battlements by chance. The sun has set, night curves over the mountaintops, and Varric comes to her. They walk and talk late into the night, until dawn reaches rosy fingertips across the sky. It becomes habit. If she is not with the Inquisitor (Cassandra is unused to being so valued, feels smothered instead), then she spends the night with Varric. Together they explore nooks and crannies of Skyhold. They argue in the hidden library, laugh in the kitchen stealing biscuits, and spend the night staring at the stars from the roof of the gazebo (Cassandra is convinced she’ll fall, that it won’t bear her weight, but trusts Varric).

 

One night, exactly like all the others. That’s all it is. Exactly like all the other nights except this night Cassandra feels bereft. The Inquisitor is off on a quest to the Fallow Mire, and she is left behind again. Trevelyan returns long enough to rotate out some party members and refresh their supplies before he’s off once more and she’s alone except for Varric. The dwarf returned looking careworn and damp, boots squelching and smelling slightly of swamp, and while she’s bidding the Inquisitor a safe trip, Cassandra’s eyes fix on Varric.

 

Until that moment, it was easy to deny her feelings for him, to brush it off as simple friendship. Instead, Varric’s return brings the vibrancy back to Skyhold, the air back into her lungs. Until his absence, Cassandra didn’t realize how much she’d missed him. So she holds one man and wishes he were another.

 

The following weeks are miserable in that they’re the happiest Cassandra’s been in a long time. She and Varric resume their walks, their bickering, their tales. She bears the pain of her love alone, holds herself aloof from him in the vain hope that she can stem the tide and believes he doesn’t notice. She keeps her distance, stays out of arm’s reach, and no longer allows even the most casual touch.

  
It is the first time in months that she’s been cruel to Varric.

 

Their truce gives way like crumbling mortar. All it takes is Varric’s hand reaching out to hers.

 

“I have feelings for you,” she says into his neck.

 

His hands gather her close, and his voice in her ear whispers curses and thanks.

 

Cassandra has never dealt with an agony so vile. Anthony’s death, the Conclave, each hurt in their own way but they never threatened to change how she thinks about herself. She has always been Cassandra Pentaghast, a Seeker of Truth. She is above all, righteous. Just. Honourable. She knows these things to be true, has earned them with shield and sword, blood and dirt. She has known doubt and uncertainty, but not like this. Never like this.

 

Andraste and the Maker provide no answer. No comfort.

 

The Inquisitor has noticed. How couldn’t he notice, when she shuns his touch and invents excuses to keep away. Guilt consumes her. The fault is with her, with her flawed heart, and the Inquisitor suffers, will suffer because of it. Her.

 

The worst part is that the one who she should loathe above all, the one who began it all, is in equal agony.

 

Varric’s eyes have never seem so aged, so unhappy. Except for the few moments they share, moments the Inquisitor never begrudges them, and why should he? Varric is his closest friend, and Cassandra is Trevelyan’s lover. To the eyes of onlookers, there is nothing at all suspect in their growing friendship. They’re careful not to say anything or do anything that might jeopardize the precarious truce they’ve reached. Anyone not looking close enough would never dream that she and Varric are-

 

She doesn’t know quite what they are. Not lovers. There are lines one does not cross. Not friends- Cassandra has never felt this way about a friend. Her feelings for Trevelyan pale in comparison to the cascade of want Varric inspires.

 

 


	22. Smile

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For antivanruffles on tumblr, who is an absolute love. 
> 
> "Have I entered an alternate universe, or did you really just crack a smile at me?"

 

 

Ancestors, but Varric hates the Fallow Mire. The most Maker forsaken corner of Thedas and they have to go plod around it fighting the undead and crazy mages. His boots haven’t been dry in three days, despite Lavellan’s magic and he’s fairly sure the leather’s ruined at this point anyways. When they’d first arrived, it was easy to endure the outright shit that is the Fallow Mire because Lavellan had promised him with that earnest look in her eyes that always reminded him of Daisy, that they’d be back in Skyhold before the month was out. Accounting for travel time, Varric had figured that was a pretty good deal.

 

He was seriously mistaken.

 

No amount of time spent doing good deeds could make up for the fact that they were in a swamp.

 

“Did you complain this much with Hawke, Varric?” Cassandra asks him, “Surely the Deep Roads are worse than a swamp.”

 

She’s right but he’ll be dead and damned before he admits it.

 

The Seeker’s calmed down some since he brought Hawke to meet them. Things had been tense, certainly. But she’d stopped giving him that look that said she regretted only stabbing his book.

 

(That it was her book all along is something that alternately amuses and confuses him).

 

There’s a retort on his tongue, but Lavellan gives him that look, and he only says:

 

“At least the Deep Roads were dry.”

 

They squelch carefully through another puddle, and Varric’s almost sure that one side of Cassandra’s mouth kicks up in a small smile.

 

It’s probably his imagination.

 

The almighty Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast would never lower herself so much as to smile at a reprobate like him. She’s made no secret of her disdain.

 

Varric forgets about it when an incautious step brings a literal horde of waterlogged corpses shambling out of the water.

 

The undead are officially on his shit list.

 

The fight’s short. Lavellan scorches the last corpse, and in her eyes is satisfaction. Not only at a job well done, and poor souls released to the Maker’s bosom, but a delight in destruction. Their lithe elven mage has some pent up aggression to work out. That worries him. The Inquisition relies on Lavellan, and from the display he just saw combined with the grimness about her jaw? She’s either burning out, or practicing her Cassandra impression. Smart money would be on the former, and that’s no damn good.

 

Thinking of Cassandra seems to summon her, which is uncanny. A woman in armour with a sword and shield strapped to her should not move that silently. Ever. She stands just behind him, hand resting on the hilt of her sword, and says nothing. Just watches him watching Lavellan, who smites what little the corpse has left to smite.

 

“She is angry,” Cassandra says.

 

“Seeker do they train you to state the obvious, or is it a gift?” Varric replies, eyes still on their leader.

  
Their leader who watches the corpse burn to embers.

 

Varric wishes they’d brought Cole, or Bull, or even Vivienne. At least Vivienne would have something dry and biting to say which might snap Lavellan out of her mood. Instead, it’s just the three of them and the skeleton crew of Inquisition scouts at the camp.

 

“It required many years of training, Varric. But I had a talent for it.”

 

Cassandra’s voice breaks the silence, and it takes him a moment to parse what she’d just said.

 

“Maker’s ba-” Varric catches himself, “Maker’s breath. That was almost a joke.”

 

He looks up at the Seeker, surprised to find her looking back. There’s a strange expression on her face, soft and amused.

 

“Did you just smile, Seeker?” Varric asks, then clasps a hand to his heart as Cassandra’s mouth curves up.

 

Unmistakably, she’s smiling at him.

 

“Well, shit. Either this is an alternate universe, or the apocalypse,” Varric says.

 

There’s a suspicious sounding snort from Cassandra, whose gaze is now firmly fixed somewhere on the horizon.

 

Suddenly, the Fallow Mire doesn’t seem so terrible.

 

 


	23. I Wish I Could Hate You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from EnigmaticAgentAlice on tumblr- "I wish I could hate you"
> 
> Short, but sweet.

“I wish I could hate you”

 

Varric’s words stick in his throat. It’s the most honest thing he’s ever said to the Seeker, to Cassandra.

 

“I want to. It would be easier than this, than watching you throw yourself into danger like you don’t care if you live or die,” he says. Laughs a little.

 

“If you didn’t? If you weren’t so damn reckless, so stubborn, you wouldn’t be you and I couldn’t-” Maker this is hard, harder than he ever imagined it could be. “I wouldn’t love you so damn much.”

 

Cassandra’s fingers squeeze his, so gently he’s sure he has to be imagining it, but one look at her face and he keeps talking.

 

“I do, I love you, and I wish I didn’t because every time we go on a mission I worry about you,” Varric says, “And when you’re somewhere without me, I- Maker, I would sell my _soul_ to be by your side.”

 

A small smile curves his lips.

 

“As though my being there would stop you getting hurt,” he says wryly.

 

Bringing Cassandra’s hand to his mouth, Varric kisses her knuckles, cups her hand in both of his. She’s not a small woman, but her hand in his is so unbearably delicate.

 

“I love you, Cassandra. I love you so much it hurts, it drives me crazy. Hell, you drive me crazy. You’re brash and reckless and you’ve got a temper like a pissed off bear, but I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone with-” Varric’s voice hitches, “With a heart like yours. You care about everyone, everything.”

 

Varric presses her knuckles to his mouth again, clasps Cassandra’s hand against his forehead.

 

“I’d do anything for you, but Maker, Cassandra please.”

 

His voice breaks, and Varric has to take a deep breath before he continues.

 

“Wake up.”

 

 


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A surprise prompt from enigmaticagentalice over on tumblr. She sent me the brilliant request for the Inquisitor et al being surprised by a dragon in the middle of the night, and being forced to fight it in their bedclothes. Or lack thereof.

Cassandra sleeps naked.

 

By the Maker, Andraste, and all the Ancestors, Varric swears he’s never seen a more beautiful sight.

 

The view’s somewhat obscured by the chaos of battle, and their comrades. But every so often the dragon’s lightning glimmers off Cassandra’s sword and shield, illuminates a flash of olive skin that nearly gets him zapped a few times before he catches himself.

 

It’s rude to stare. It’s damn rude and he knows better. Maker’s ass he knows better.

 

His robe flaps open as he rolls away from an errant dragon claw, and Varric hurriedly cinches it shut again.

 

There are certain things he doesn’t want exposed to the world. Or to a dragon.

 

Of course he realizes that concealing himself while ogling Cassandra is a double standard.

 

But this is going to be a hell of a story. The kind of thing that slips into legend. One of the last dragon-hunting Pentaghasts fighting a dragon bare naked with nothing but her sword and shield to protect her, in the company of the Inquisitor, a Tevinter mage, and a renowned author.

 

When he finally writes this down, it’s going to blow that stuffed shirt Genitivi out of the water.

 

The dragon roars, and electricity scorches the land where the Inquisitor was just standing. A blast of something creepily green smears across its face. When the Inquisitor pops back up between the dragon’s back legs, he waves jauntily at Dorian. For his part, Sparkler looks like he’s lost about a year off his life.

  
Hm. Something there, between their charming Adaar and the Vint.

 

Varric’s contemplation of the Inquisitor’s love life is interrupted by his sudden introduction to the dirt.

 

His first frantic thought is that he’s been stupid enough to get knocked over by the dragon’s front legs. Varric’s second, more rational thought, is that someone’s just saved his ass since the aforementioned dragon’s claws drag furrows into the ground mere feet from his head.

 

Cassandra stands braced above him, shield tilted to send any electric bolts bouncing away, sword at the ready. Sweaty, dirty, bleeding from a dozen small cuts and bruises, her braid sagging off her head, and by the Maker she’s the most phenomenal woman he’s ever seen. He tries not to see any more of her than he should, but the sight of her limned by the fires scattered around them, muscles straining in readiness for her next lunge towards the monster that towers over them is one that would transfix a damn saint.

 

Cassandra’s muscles tense, and in one movement her powerful body springs forward, leaving only the echo of her battle cry and the dragon’s howl of pain as she drives her sword though its eye and into the brain.

 

The dragon’s body convulses, and Varric manages to get back on his feet in time to see Cassandra stab the dragon again. Blood spurts up and spatters her. In the sullen light of the fires, she looks like a wild thing, a goddess. Fierce and shining.

 

Artists across Thedas would sell their souls for the sight he’s now bearing witness to.

 

Fuck, he’d sell his soul to never forget the vision that is Cassandra Pentaghast bloodsoaked and nude triumphant over a dragon.

 

She notices his staring. Sliding down the dragon’s neck, Cassandra crosses the ground towards him in what feels simultaneously like a heartbeat and eternity.

 

“Your robe is open,” she says.

 

Her mouth quirks up in a smile, and Varric bursts out laughing.

  
  



	25. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Vehlr, who requested "When's the last time you slept?" from the angst meme prompts. Like some kind of masochist.

“When’s the last time you slept?”

 

It takes Cassandra a few seconds to realize she’s being spoken to. Then a few more seconds to remember what day it is. By the time she assembles her thoughts, it is too late. The expression on Piers’ face is far too knowing.

 

“You need to sleep, Cassandra,” he says, worry in his eyes.

 

Selfish of her, to worry him when the weight of the world already weighs on those shoulders. But she cannot help herself. Cassandra is familiar with death, knows it sneaks upon you when you least expect it and she will be vigilant. If she can only keep watch, as she should have been doing, Varric will wake.

 

Irrational, she knows that. Speed is of the essence, will dictate whether their return to Skyhold is triumphant or somber. Whether she stays by Varric’s side or not, it does not matter. But still, she cannot leave his side, cannot sleep and leave him alone. Laid out on the cot, Varric does not stir. Has not stirred now for- Cassandra’s sleep fogged brain loses the calculations. His pulse beneath her fingers is slow and steady. But he does not wake.

 

Piers watches her, his face drawn with concern.

 

“It’s not normal for dwarves to be affected like this, is it?” Cassandra asks.

 

Piers shakes his head, gestures at himself. “Didn’t have anyone to teach me all the dwarfy stuff. But- I don’t think it is.”

 

Varric moves, and Cassandra’s heart jumps. But it is nothing. His eyes do not open, his rusty voice does not question her presence at his sickbed. There is nothing but the flicker of the lamps and their breathing.

 

“It’s not your fault, Cassandra. You aren’t responsible for-”

 

“I am!” she says, fire in her voice.

 

Piers steps back, and Cassandra sags down into her chair.

 

“I apologize, Inquisitor.”

 

“Already forgiven, but- why?”

 

Cassandra fiddles with the blanket’s trim.

 

“I brought him here,” she says heavily. “Dragged him away from all he’d known, and for what?”

 

When she looks up at Piers, the grief in her expression leaves him breathless.

 

“To meet the Divine, to talk about what happened in Kirkwall,” he says, the pat response Cassandra loathes.

 

“To prove that I could,” she says. “I- there was no _need_ for Varric to be brought to meet Justinia. I had his testimony, and the plans for the Conclave were already in motion. I-”

 

Cassandra’s voice breaks. “I brought him to Haven as punishment.”

 

“I am responsible for him,” she says, voice stronger now. “Everything that happens to him is a result of my actions, my- my hubris.”

 

Varric draws in another shallow breath.

 

The gaze Cassandra turns on him is full of despair, and pleading. There’s a copper bowl with a washcloth by the head of the bed. Dunking the cloth in the water, Cassandra wrings it out, and folds it neatly before wiping Varric’s face with it. Every move is so gentle, Piers almost can’t bear to watch her.

 

They stand in silence, watching Varric’s chest rise and fall.

 

“When we return to Skyhold, Inquisitor?” Cassandra says, “I have a request. No matter what happens to Varric I must ask that you-”

 

“Anything, Cassandra, you know that.”

 

“Judge me.”

 

The words fall heavily in the oppressive silence of the tent. Piers opens his mouth to deny her, to tell her that it’s not her fault no matter what she thinks. But Cassandra’s eyes are so full of pain he can’t refuse her this.

 

“As you wish.”

 

He leaves the tent, and Cassandra continues her vigil.

 

 


	26. Not Alright

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruffles requested "No, no I'm not alright, I'm definitely not alright" from the angst prompt meme!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with this one. I know in canon it's not possible for dwarves to dream, but it's suggested that this might not be true for surface dwarves. Since Varric's a surface dwarf, and has been exposed to the Fade and demons multiple times, I figured it might be possible for him to dream. In the right circumstances.

Ofelia crawls up out of the darkness, eyes faded grey, skin torn, pallid. The red smear of paint across her nose lost amidst the blood. She holds her hands out, palms up. Beseeching him.

 

He grabs her hands, slick with blood. Her skin peels, the fine bones grind and crunch, but he has to hold onto her, has to pull her up out of the darkness. He can’t let her go back, Ofelia always hated the night. She can’t go back, she can’t leave him alone, can’t leave Isabela behind.

 

“Varric,” she says.

 

Her smile is wrong, bloody and sunken. The bones of her fingers dig into his wrists. Skin sloughs off and it hurts, Maker’s breath it hurts and Ofelia is dragging him down into the black water that laps at her feet.

 

“Varric!”

 

Blind panic overtakes him, the water rises to his knees as Ofelia’s fingerbones pierce his skin and she’s going to drown him, he’s going to suffocate on that black water. Thigh deep, and it’s so cold, ice cold and hungry, biting at his clothes and his skin, reaching eagerly for his mouth and his nose and-

 

“Varric!”

 

He can’t die not like this, not like her cold and alone and floating endlessly in that blackness but he’s going to he’s going to die and never finish-

 

He shakes, is being shaken, the water has hold of him finally it wants him it can’t have him-

 

“Maker take you, dwarf.”

 

Varric snaps awake, dream still sticking in the corners of his mind but this feels like a dream too. The Seeker sits on the floor by his bed, a scrap of cloth clutched to her nose. Above the red spattered cloth, her eyebrows are drawn down over eyes hot with annoyance. She’s not in her armour, which is strange enough that he wonders if he’s dreaming again. Cassandra in casual clothing? It really is the end of the world.

 

The longer he stares at Cassandra, the more he realizes how absolutely alone he is here. In Kirkwall, he’d never be relieved to see her but he is because-

 

“Are you alright, Varric?” she asks.

 

Maker’s ass. Maker’s holy ass he’s crying. Tears are streaming down his face and it’s even worse because he can’t seem to stop. Ofelia’s eyes stare up at him from the abyss.

 

The black water is waiting for him.

 

“Varric. Varric!” Cassandra’s voice is insistent, edged with something else.

 

She sits on his bed, gathers him close and this is probably the strangest thing that’s ever happened to him except that it isn’t. It dawns on him that this isn’t the weirdest thing that’s ever happened to him.

 

“Varric were you… were you dreaming?” Cassandra asks.

 

She sounds horrified.

 

“No, no I can’t-” Varric breaks off, smears his tearstained face against Cassandra’s shoulder.

 

Her arms close around his back, and in his ear Cassandra’s heartbeat is slow and sure. He breathes along with her, inhales, exhales, again and again until he feels capable of speech.

 

“No, no, I’m not alright. I’m definitely not alright.”

  
  



	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric discovers something.

Cassandra's developed a bad habit of barging in on him when he's shirtless. So it makes a certain kind of sense that he'd have the bad luck to surprise her bathing in the little lake above their camp. And, his luck being what it is, it also makes sense that she'd be startled. His luck is- well, actually Varric can't decide if this counts as good luck or not.

 

On one hand, Cassandra has her knee planted squarely in his chest, and he's had all the air slammed out of his lungs. Which is probably bad luck.

 

On the other hand, since he'd surprised her there was no time for her to get dressed. So he has a bare naked Cassandra pressing him into the dirt, water streaming off her sleek body, and that's gotta be considered good luck.

 

She's damn gorgeous.

 

Still, he surprised her, and it's not very gentlemanly to stare.

 

Varric tries to avert his eyes, he really does.

 

In fact, he might have succeeded in not gaping at her if the sunlight hadn't glinted off something metallic.

 

"Seeker. I- uh. I hate to ask." Varric licked lips that were suddenly desert dry. "But- uh. Are your nipples pierced?"

 

Varric's brain caught up to his mouth.

 

"You can go ahead and kill me for that one, Seeker."

 

Varric closed his eyes against the vision that was Cassandra, feeling like an idiot.

The weight of her knee shifted from his chest. Probably trying to figure out a way to murder him without letting him see her naked one more time.

 

Cassandra snorted.

 

Varric cracked one eye open.

 

"Get up, Varric."

 

This was not how he wanted to meet the Maker.

 

"Varric."

 

Cassandra exhaled heavily, and Varric could feel her patience thinning.

 

"I'm not going to hurt you."

 

Varric got to his feet, making sure not to stare at anything other than the Seeker's bare toes.

 

Okay, so his gaze made it to her knees before he remembered whose limbs he was admiring, and fixed his gaze on her toes again.

 

"Incorrigible."

 

Was it his imagination, or did Cassandra sound... fond? Definitely his imagination. Had to be. A hand slipped under his chin, tipping his head upwards.Cassandra offered him a smile. More of a smirk, really.

 

Maker's ass. Maker's holy ass.

 

Varric swallowed heavily, eyes locked on Cassandra's as her hand slid round to the back of his head. Cassandra's fingers threaded through his hair. That same smug smirk still on her lips as she leaned closer.

 

"Yes, they are." Her lips brushed against his.

 

An armoured fist pounded against his bedroom door.

 

"Varric! We set out for the Western Approach in one hour. Do not make me come find you."

 

Varric sat up halfway in bed, confused and still aroused. Maker. Maybe an hour would be enough time to solve his problem. Before he had to face Cassandra.

  
  



	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From an anon prompt on tumblr: "Varric x Cassandra, Lalochezia"
> 
> lalochezia- the use of abusive language to relieve stress or ease pain

It hurts and he’s not sure why it still does, why the loss still burns beneath his skin. She’s gone, and even if she did come back it would never be the same so what’s the point of wishing it otherwise?

Varric spends his time being seen. Doing the things expected of him. He laughs when there’s reason, tells jokes and stories that keep the tavern full and people awake til all hours. Cole follows him like a shadow on days where the kid wants lessons on being people. It’s nice not having Chuckles brooding away like teaching the kid about shoelaces is a sin against common decency.

Cole tries once to talk to him about the things Varric tries to ignore. Only once. Varric’s had more experience at being people, and even Compassion cannot help him.

The only time anyone catches the sharp side of his tongue, it’s the Inquisitor. Adaar should know better, probably does. Varric himself should’ve known better- The Inquisitor has always had a robust self assuredness that verges on the irritating. As though everyone’s problems can be solved through a little common sense, and they need Adaar to tell them so.

The first few times it happens, Adaar backs off before anything can be said.

This time though, it’s not a good day and Varric is not in the mood.

“There’s no reason not to do it,” Adaar tells him. “There is no downside.”

“Never is, is there?” Varric says and it’s true. For Adaar there’s never a downside.

“All I’m saying is that you do yourself more harm than good and there’s no reason for it.”

“If I write the damn thing will you leave me alone?” Varric asks “Or will you be looking over my shoulder the entire time?”

“You will not write it otherwise,” Adaar says.

Varric knows the smugness is in his imagination. But Adaar has been hammering away at him for days now. So sure he’s right, that his way is best.

“If you want it done so bad, write it yourself.”

“It is not me she-”

“It isn’t. And it’s not me either. So kindly fuck off,” Varric growls.

Adaar blinks. Shoves himself away from Varric’s table.

“How do you know?” He says.

Adaar leaves, and Varric is left alone with his work.

In the two months since Divine Victoria ascended the Sunburst Throne, he has not been able to write a word.


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Vehlr who is a terrible enabler. Smut ahead!
> 
> Prompt: Cataglottism- a kiss with tongue

Cassandra’s thighs tremble against his ears. Her heels dig into his back and Varric can feel the effort it takes for her to keep her legs spread.

“When you asked for a kiss-” Varric begins.

He presses a kiss against her, tongue lightly brushing along the seam of her body. Above him, Cassandra’s breath hitches.

“I was surprised when you dragged me in here,” he finishes.

Cassandra’s trousers hang off one ankle. She never wears smalls and that fact is never far from Varric’s mind. Sometimes it distracts him in the middle of their missions with the Inquisitor. The number of times he’s almost been maimed or killed because he was too busy thinking about how one thin layer of leather separates him from Cassandra is a number he doesn’t want to admit knowing.

Her fingers spear through his hair, trail down his jaw. She’s never rough with him, always a little self conscious of her strength.

That, Varric decides, cannot stand.

When his tongue teases her pussy again, ever so gently, Cassandra presses herself closer. But not too close.

One finger joins his tongue, and she groans. Cassandra’s hands ball into fists at her sides.

“C'mon Seeker. Let go a little,” Varric murmurs.

When he slips a second finger inside her, Cassandra’s hips buck. Varric’s tongue flicks against the hard nub of her clit, and she whines.

Fun as it is to kneel in front of her, Varric has a better idea.

Freeing his fingers from the tight warmth of her pussy, Varric guides Cassandra down with him, til she’s kneeling over his face.

“That’s better. C'mere, Seeker,” Varric murmurs, already missing the taste of her.

“Varric!”

Maker that voice of hers gets him hard, especially when it’s rough with passion.

Rocking her hips forward, Cassandra’s wet cunt presses against his mouth and Varric nearly sighs with pleasure. His hands squeeze her ass, urge her on.

“Varric-”

She gasps, spreads her legs wider.

“Varric, Maker I- Your mouth.”

He smiles, and smacks her ass.

They’re both silent but for the wet sound of her riding his face, and their heavy breaths. Leaning back, Cassandra braces one arm on the carpet beneath them. The other hand kneads her breast, pinching and rolling her nipple as Varric fucks her with his tongue, her hips grinding down against him.

“Fuck, fuck. Varric,” Cassandra gasps out.

Varric buries his face in her cunt, yanking her hips tight and still.

When she comes, he feels it. Cassandra’s body spasms against his, wet and hot.

“Holy shit,” Varric breathes as Cassandra adjusts herself to cuddle against his chest. “Fuck, that was- fucking hot, Seeker.”

Cassandra sighs happily at his side.

“How long before someone comes looking for us?” she asks.

“Given how long Josie’s speeches are?” Varric says. “Time enough for a second kiss.”

Cassandra’s lips meet his, and it’s the second sweetest kiss he’s had all day.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For antivanruffles, my precious. 
> 
> The prompt was "Varric, duende- the unusual power to attract or charm"

It starts when he’s a boy. There are other dwarven families in Kirkwall, fine ones and poor ones and in between ones. His family falls into that strange third category. They have money. They had rank. But they were surfacers and therefore tainted. Varric doesn’t feel that shame the way his parents and Bartrand do; he knows no other life than this.

There are many things Varric doesn’t know. He doesn’t know the Stone, he doesn’t know what calls dwarves beneath the earth, but by the age of ten he knows he has something Bartrand doesn’t. Varric has charm.

It’s not hard to learn, but he watches as Bartrand tries and fails to learn it. There’s a price for outshining his older brother, but it’s one Varric pays willingly. After all, having something Bartrand doesn’t carries a reward all its own.

After that, he’s still the second son. The spare, with no stone sense and no loyalty to a faraway city he’ll never visit. But he has value.

Varric keeps his skills sharp, gets  
cocky and stays that way long after he should’ve outgrown it.

He forgets that everything has value, and most things have a price.

A price he pays again and again.

Kirkwall burns and Varric pays with the ragtag family his charm won him.

The Seeker comes for Hawke, and Varric pays with his home.

His charm brings him not the Seeker, but Cassandra. A subtle difference he savours. He treasures her, and the home he begins to build in their shared hearts. But always Varric keeps an eye out for the price.

Cassandra is nominated for Divine and Varric prepares to pay the price for loving her so much. For her sake he would trample his own heart underfoot, he would pay again and again only to see her happy.

Divine Victoria’s reign begins.

Varric and Cassandra witness her ascension, before returning home to Kirkwall.


	31. Exactly What It Looks Like

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the anon who prompted "it's not what it looks like!" for Cassandra and Varric. Have some snuggles. <3

“It’s not what it looks like!”

 

Cassandra’s face turned beet red, as she flung herself back across the tent. Blankets and pillows followed her, and Varric shivered in the cold air. A quick check and his internal clock told him dawn was still hours away. Still half asleep, he propped himself up on one arm and tugged on the blanket caught beneath Cassandra’s body.

 

“What it looked like was you stealing all the blankets,” he said dryly.

 

“A blanket thief? Cassandra, how deplorable,” Dorian said.

 

Varric blinked.

 

“Sparkler, don’t you have beauty sleep to catch up on?”

 

Cassandra was still glaring out at the Vint from her pile of blankets. Dorian smiled at her, and the blush deepened.

 

“Sparkler, either get in or go back to your own damn tent,” Varric said.

 

A frigid blast of snowy air blew into the tent. Liberating a blanket from Cassandra, Varric rolled himself in it, and ignored them both.

 

“Charming an invitation as that is, Varric, I believe I’ll retire to my own tent,” Dorian said.

 

Silence reigned again in their tent, once Dorian had left. Wind howled through the campsite.

 

“Going to tell me why you were so embarrassed, Seeker?” Varric said into the quiet.

 

He could hear the sound of Cassandra fidgeting, blankets rustling against each other. At least she was warm, Varric thought. The chilly air Dorian had brought into their tent lingered, and Varric could feel his skin prickling taut, even beneath the blanket.

 

“We were...embracing,” Cassandra said stiffly.

 

Varric’s sleep fogged brain fought with that for a moment.

 

“We were asleep,” he pointed out. “Doesn’t count. Huddling together for warmth, right?”

 

As if to further his point, the wind battered itself against the side of their tent, cold air bleeding through the thick canvas.

 

“Maker’s breath,” Cassandra swore.

“Damn cold,” Varric agreed.

 

Rolling onto his side to face her, he lifted the edge of his blanket and patted the space next to him.  
  
“Bring some of those blankets this way, Seeker.”

 

Cassandra’s sleepy brown eyes met his, evaluating his offer. Just as quickly as she’d gone, Cassandra was back at his side. They settled together comfortably, her long limbs curling around him. Already, Varric felt warmer. Cassandra settled the blankets over them, sealing them off from the tent and the Emprise’s chill.

 

“Huddling together for warmth?” Cassandra asked.

 

Her breath stirred the hairs along the back of his neck. Varric could feel the barest hint of her lips, curved in a smile.

 

“I am only using you for your body heat,” Varric confirmed.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am such a sucker for cuddling.


	32. Stories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric writes.

History is made up of stories, and Varric has always maintained that they’ll be his. In Kirkwall it was easy to believe. In the ass end of Ferelden on top of a mountain, it’s becoming clear that history won’t be his stories, really. He’ll write them, but they won’t be his. He’ll tell the tale, but already he knows that he’ll be a shadow. A famous name to give the legend legitimacy.

 

Before Haven, it hadn’t mattered to him. They were all the same, all fighting for the same end. Equals. And he hadn’t wanted her. Hadn’t even considered becoming friends with Cassandra. He’d mocked her, before he knew who she was. Before he knew enough to regret it.

 

After Haven, it is not too late. The Herald becomes Inquisitor, and that doesn’t matter. Until it does. Until being Inquisitor seems to imply heights Varric can’t reach. He’s too late, then. The Inquisitor has always seen Cassandra for who she is. They’ve formed a bond he can’t penetrate. And now he hovers on the outside, wanting to be closer but incapable of doing so. Partly, it’s his pride. He won’t beg. Won’t be needy. That’s not who he is. Not Varric Tethras, author, rogue, businessman, merchant prince. But a small part of him wishes.

 

Cassandra softens. Laughs, smiles, blushes. She makes jokes, and Varric hadn’t realized how much he’d come to love her sense of humour, which is drier than his own. They become close. But not too close. Varric is ever conscious of being on the outside. Their Inquisitorialness draws ever closer and Varric can see it, like he sees the trajectory of an arrow. Cassandra and the Inquisitor keep moving, and try as he might, Varric cannot overtake them.

 

This won’t be his story.

 

It will be theirs. The story of a love found in the midst of hardship and sorrow, and all the purer for it.

 

That is, in the end, all he can do for her. The only way he has to tell her what’s in his heart.

 

Their story will be the best thing he’s ever written.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written on a whim


	33. A New Hope

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra finds comfort in the little things.

The end draws near and Cassandra is sick with the knowledge that she has backed the wrong man. The Herald of Andraste. The Inquisitor. It had gone wrong so fast, the reins ripped from her hands, all the power given to a man who has no respect for it. For the damage he can do to all of them. She has put this man in control, has given him everything he needs to rain ruin down upon Thedas.

 

The wine bottle is lighter in her hand than it had been, and that sickens her too. Not the alcohol. But the loss of control it signifies. Her failure, here too. Around her the smiths toil away, the forge fills with armour and weaponry to fuel this new Inquisition. Her creation. It seems a fitting place to languish in drink. Failure surrounded by the fruits of its victory.

 

Inquisitor Trevelyan (Maker but Cassandra loathes the man, cannot bear to think of him) finds her. Seeks her out for no reason but to mock, to rub her nose in the filth that is the power she’s given him.

 

By the Maker’s Grace, Trevelyan does not banish her from the Inquisition. Cassandra suspects that it’s only so he can have her at hand, so that she might bear witness. The memory brings a sneer to her face. The Inquisitor is cocky. But his position is not so strong as he imagines. Leliana does not respect the man either, and history is full of men who filled their purpose and then disappeared.

 

Alone in the brutal heat of the forge, Cassandra lets herself smile.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I make a silly Star Wars reference. I suppose.


	34. Check It Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the darlingest Ruffles on tumblr! "I saw that! You just checked me out!"

She doesn’t mean to do it. At first it’s only because she does not quite trust the dwarf to have her back. It’s important to always know where he is. Just in case.

 

Then, she looks because somehow this man produces the books she loves, the stories that soothe her aching heart. Behind that sarcastic, mocking exterior there is something she can’t quite catch hold of.

 

Somewhere in between, Cassandra realizes she’s been watching him for no other reason than the pleasure of it.

 

It is embarrassing. But it isn’t. And she can’t bring herself to stop.

 

“I saw that. You just checked me out,” Varric says in her ear.

 

His voice is low, and she can hear the smirk in it. Maker, he’s standing so close to her. She can feel the heat of his body, smell his soap and-

 

Cassandra ignores the way her breath wavers.

 

“I did no such-” she starts.

 

“I didn’t say I _minded_ , Seeker,” Varric interrupts. “If you like, you can have a closer look?”

 

Cassandra swallows past the sudden thickness in her throat. Leans back a little against him.

 

“I would like that,” she says.

 

Varric’s laugh reverberates in her chest.


	35. "I Can't Stop Thinking About Your Hands On Me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A prompt from lunarch-sounds on tumblr!
> 
> This one is nsfw and features maybe a little light bondage.

“I can’t stop thinking about your hands on me,” Cassandra says.

A shudder wracks through Varric’s body.

“That why you’ve tied me up, Seeker?” he manages to say. “Bit counterintuitive-”

The rest of his breath hisses out as Cassandra’s teeth scrape against his neck. He’ll have a red mark there later and he doesn’t care. Doesn’t care that everyone will see it, will know how he wound up with a love bite on his throat.  
He wants more.

Cassandra looks down at him, eyes fierce and dark with lust and possessiveness. In one sinuous movement, she sinks on to his lap and he can feel the warmth of her cunt through the leather of her pants.

There’s something obscene about the slide of leather against his bare skin. Part of him wonders if this is why she never wears smalls.

Varric’s hands twitch, trapped above his head by his own belt. They ache for the touch of her skin, for the wetness between her thighs, the softness of her mouth.  
Instead Cassandra touches him, teases and bites, taking her own sweet time until Varric’s bucking against the restraints.

“Seeker.”

She rolls her hips against his, loops her arms around his neck. Her breasts are just out of reach, torturously close to his mouth.

“My name, Varric.”

She rocks against him, rutting against his erection in a way that makes his eyes roll back in his head.

“Fuck. Fuck. Cassandra,” her name falls from his lips on a gasp, a prayer and a curse. “Please-”

He’s dangerously close to begging for anything she’ll give him.

Above him Cassandra groans, and suddenly her breasts are in his face, hot sweaty skin and her thumping heartbeat when he sucks a nipple into his mouth.  
Her hands are everywhere, pressing him closer, pulling his hair, raking against his skin while her leather-clad hips grind faster and faster against his cock.

Varric comes with a shout, Cassandra murmuring encouragement in his ear.

When he comes back to himself, his hands are untied. Cassandra sweeps sweaty hair from her face, shrieks when Varric tosses her over his shoulder, one hand on her ass.

“Your turn.”


	36. "Looks Like You Dropped Something..."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another prompt from lunarch-sounds. This time featuring a detective AU?

 

Varric’s heard of Detective Pentaghast- who hasn’t? Ex-soldier, the woman who foiled a plot to murder Divine Beatrix, 78th in line for the Nevarran throne. She could’ve cashed in on her fame and retired to a life of leisure and luxury. She hadn’t, opting to join the force instead. Which was why he was in her office while the most famous police officer in Thedas screamed down the phone about the indignity of working with him.

 

“Yes ma’am,” Detective Pentaghast said.

 

Her restraint was impressive- it was clear to Varric she’d barely held back a snarl, and the look she gave the phone? It was a miracle the beat up black plastic didn’t liquify.

 

The detective swung her furious gaze his way, and Varric felt her try to rein her temper in. Eyes snapping with anger, her face a little flushed. Her tongue darted out to wet her lips, and Varric had to concede she was beautiful when angry. And from what he knew of her, she was always angry.

 

Varric leaned back in his chair as Detective Pentaghast loomed over him, and met her hot glare with a cool look. Something flared in her eyes, those red lips parted and for a split second Varric thought-

 

well. Didn’t matter, since the detective seemed to find him personally at fault for whatever had passed between them.

 

Her dark brows drew down into a stern line, her mouth pressed flat and humourless.

 

Not that she’d had much humour before.

 

“You will listen to me, Tethras. None of your theatrics,” she said. “You work with me or you do not work at all.”

 

“Head brass said-”

 

“I do not care whose palms you greased, while you’re in my precint you will obey me,” she snarled.

 

The detective was leaning so far over his chair that her notebook slipped from her pocket and hit the floor with a slap. The tense atmosphere became charged, as she looked down and Varric looked up. Neither of them moving to pick up the notebook which lay at his feet.

 

“Looks like you dropped something,” Varric drawled.

 

He could’ve sworn her cheecks flushed a deeper pink, but it seemed important, vital, that he not break eye contact.

 

Detective Pentaghast glanced down at the fallen booklet.

 

She sank to her knees, eyes locked once again with his as she scooped the notebook up and tucked it back in her pocket. Rising, the detective didn’t look away from Varric’s face, fuelled by the same strange compulsion that kept his eyes zeroed in on hers.

 

Her tongue darted out again, wetting her lips.

 

“Dismissed, Tethras.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This continues into the next prompt!


	37. "I Think You'll Be Happy To Know I'm Not Wearing Any Underwear"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt from janiemcpants on tumblr: "I think you'll be happy to know I'm not wearing any underwear"
> 
> Ties in with the previous chapter!

Detective Cassandra Pentaghast grit her teeth and tried not to slug either the nosy journalist or her equally nosy partner.

Do the interview, the captain said. It will be good press, she said.

You don’t have a choice, she said.

“Isn’t that right, Seeker?” Varric said. he gave her a roguish wink and a smile that was clearly fake.

Clear to anyone who knew how fraught their professional relationship was. The journalist beamed at them both and scribbled a note. Probably some sickening sentence about their ‘rapport’ or even worse, their ‘palpable chemistry’, Cassandra thought. 

Her work phone buzzed at her hip. 

“You’ll have to excuse us,” Cassandra said brusquely.

The journalist didn’t have a chance to speak as Cassandra jerked her head at Varric and turned on her heel to leave the cafe at a faster pace than was polite. She’d never cared about that sort of thing, and wasn’t about to start now. 

Outside, the air was fresh and crisp. Quiet but for the noises of a city in autumn.

The cafe’s door creaked open behind her.

Varric. Cassandra didn’t need to turn around to know it was him. When it came to her partner, she’d developed a sort of sixth sense. Of course, given who her partner was, it could’ve just been her cop-senses tingling.

Though that didn’t account for the way Varric made her face flush, or her heart skip.

Irritating man.

“What’s got your panties in a twist, Seeker?” he drawled.

“What makes you think I’m wearing any?” Cassandra retorted.

She made it all the way to the car before Varric stopped sputtering.


	38. I Almost Lost You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fill for my dear msynergy!

Her head hurts.

 

It’s far too weak a word for the utter agony exploding behind her eyes. But it’s  still accurate.

 

A whimper escapes Cassandra’s lips, a soft noise that makes her head and throat throb. Now that she’s awake, a host of injuries spring to her attention. Everything hurts. Even opening her eyes. The dim light of the cave is a small blessing. Not enough to counter the discomfort of the hard, uneven cave floor–

 

Cassandra’s sore brain catches up to itself.

 

Why is she in a cave.

 

Her eyes flutter shut as she tries to focus.

 

The Emerald Graves. A giant.

  
The images are fuzzy, they linger somewhere beyond her grasp.

 

Cassandra doesn’t yet have all the pieces. In her memory, someone cries out.

 

Her eyes open again, the same cave ceiling above her and the faint scent of a campfire. Rolling her head to the side takes several ages, and is almost not worth the pain. A stout figure sits on the far side of the fire. Flames catch on the metal fixtures of a crossbow being re-assembled.

 

“V’rrk,” Cassandra croaks.

 

Her dry tongue makes a futile attempt at wetting her dry lips. She’s not even sure he heard her, nor entirely sure it’s even Varric, until he’s at her side.

 

The light’s behind him, but it’s Varric and if it wouldn’t hurt so much Cassandra’s sure she’d weep.

 

Gently, he helps her rise enough to drink a little water from his canteen. Cassandra’s foggy brain can’t agree on what she needs more- water, or Varric’s arms about her.

 

He holds her close, the longest they’ve ever touched and Cassandra feels foolish for even thinking about it.

 

“I almost lost you,” Varric says into her hair.

 

His embrace tightens, and the fear in his voice grips Cassandra’s heart like a vise. It is almost beyond her strength to lift her hand, but she does, settles it against the soft silk of Varric’s sleeve. It’s not enough, but it’s the best she can do.

 

 


	39. Stop Avoiding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An anon requested "I think it's about time we stop avoiding the obvious"
> 
> minor spoilers for trespasser
> 
> like. super minor.

“Why?”

 

Cassandra hid her hands in the wide sleeves of her robe.

 

“Why would you tell me this now, when there is no hope?”

 

Varric flinched at the bitterness in her voice.

 

“Where were you when-” Cassandra’s voice shook.

 

Whether with rage or with sorrow, Varric couldn’t tell.

 

“Where was I? At your side. Always,” he spat.

 

Cassandra’s restless movements ceased. Between them, the air grew tight with tension

 

“The Chantry will always assist however we can, Viscount Tethras,” Cassandra bit out.

 

“You know damn well that’s not-”

 

The Divine vanished as Cassandra turned on him, fury blazing in her eyes like coals.

 

“You are not the only one who suffered. Who sacrificed. And  now you come to me expecting- what?” Cassandra’s lip curled. “That I would fall into your arms? Forsake all I have spent the last year building?”

 

Varric looked up at her, calm in the face of her anger.

 

“Who’d expect anything human from the Divine?” he said.

 

Cassandra’s fingers clenched around empty space, as though wishing it were his throat.

 

“Most Holy.”

 

Varric bowed shallowly.

 

“Get. Out!” Cassandra growled.

 

The door didn’t slam shut. Varric closed it gently, offering the guards a jaunty smile that didn’t penetrate the bleak misery in his eyes. He left the Divine’s palace and did not look back.

 

In her suite, Cassandra twisted a note in her hands, over and over until the paper began to tear. Staring at the mangled page, Cassandra seemed to come to a decision. Two long strides brought her to the candle burning at her desk. Flame ate into the thin parchment, and Cassandra dropped it onto a salver, watching as fire consumed the all too familiar handwriting.

 

“I think it’s about time we stop avoiding the obvious,” she read one last time. “Oh, Varric.”

 

 


	40. You enjoying the view over there?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For novemberocean, who requested it.

“You enjoyin’ the view over there?”

 

“Inquisitor! Pay attention!” Cassandra called.

 

At the sideline of the sparring ring, a small crowd had gathered to watch Leigh Trevelyan’s biweekly match with Cassandra. Sun beat down on them all, and some enterprising person had broached a cask of ale for the spectators. Both women retreated to opposite sides of the ring, mopping sweat from their faces and necks.

 

“Ready to lose, Cassandra?” Leigh hollered.

 

“When the time comes, Inquisitor,” Cassandra replied. “But it is not today.”

 

Varric could’ve sworn she smiled, but that might’ve been a trick of the light. Cassandra rolled her shoulders before testing the weight of her blunt-edged practice sword. Even he had to admit, she was an impressive woman. Sweat trickled down the graceful column of her neck, slicked her strongly muscled arms. The practice swords were heavy, but Cassandra swung it as though it weighed next to nothing. She had to be glad this was only a practice match- she and Leigh only needed to wear lightly armoured leathers.

 

“Put you down for the Seeker, then?” Krem said.

 

Varric didn’t choke on his ale, but it was a near thing.

 

“Chief’s got a betting pool. They’re tied for wins right now,” Krem said, gesturing at the two fighters.

 

“Good odds?”

 

“In the Inquisitor’s favour, yeah.”

 

That was a surprise.

 

“Cassandra’s the more experienced fighter,” Varric pointed out.

 

“The Seeker’s got respect. Not the same as bein’ liked.”

 

There wasn’t much Varric could say to that. They lapsed into silence while Leigh and Cassandra circled one another in the ring. Now that Krem had pointed it out, Varric started really listening to the people who watched. They cheered good hits about equally, but there was a distinct bias in the Inquisitor’s favour. No one was stupid or cruel enough to cat call the Right Hand of the Divine, but very few cheered for her either.

 

Steel clanged against steel, and the crowd cheered. Cassandra flicked sweat from her eyes and ignored them. She had to hear them, had to know why the Inquisitor was favoured over her.

 

Shit.

 

“Five on Cassandra,” Varric heard himself say.

 

Krem accepted the coin, and melted back into the crowd while Varric watched the fight.

 

Cassandra struck a good blow, and he cheered. Maker only knew he’d always been a sucker for the underdog.


	41. Just Once

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For novemberocean, who asked for "just once"
> 
> Look out, this got smutty.

“Just once,” Cassandra says.

 

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and Varric watches, unable to tear his gaze away from her mouth. She bit her lip, one last sign of hesitation, and Varric’s hands find hers.

 

“Just once,” he agrees, smoothing his palms down the flare of her hips.

 

Cassandra drew in a breath. Looking up at her, Varric felt a sharp jolt of lust course through him. Cassandra watched him with burning eyes, and at that moment he would’ve given her anything she asked for. Anything to keep her looking down at him with such hunger, to keep her warm body pressed flush against his, the scent of her sweat and arousal in his nose.

 

His hands coax her closer, roving over the bare skin burnished bronze by the firelight.

 

“Varric.”

 

She sighs out his name, and Varric smiled against the soft skin of her sternum, feeling her muscles clench as he inhaled deeply, filling his nose with the scent of her. Turning his head, he nipped at her breast, Cassandra’s sharp gasp turning into a soft exhale as he sucked a nipple into his mouth. Her hands flew into his hair, urging him closer. Varric palmed her other breast, pinching and kneading until Cassandra was panting and her grip on his hair was a bit painful.

 

“Unh- Varric.”

 

He smirked against her, and switched to her other breast, rasping her sensitive skin with his stubble. Cassandra shuddered. Her body rocked against his. Varric slid his hand down to tease at the wetness between her thighs. Warm, slick flesh met his fingers and Cassandra-

 

Cassandra keened.

 

“You’re dripping,” he said, face buried between her breasts.

 

Cassandra’s arms looped around his neck.

 

“Varric,” she growled.

 

Arousal pooled in his gut. Cassandra did… something and all he had was the impression of her muscles flexing before he found himself lying back on the cot.

 

“Bossy,” he murmured.

 

Cassandra grinned.

 

“I know what I want, dwarf.”

 

“And what’s that, Seeker?”

 

Cassandra sat back, the corner of her mouth curling up into a smug smile.

 

“Your mouth,” she said. “On my cunt.”

 

“Hng,” Varric managed.

 

Cassandra arched an eyebrow at him.

 

“Varric!” she shrieked as his hands squeezed her ass.

 

“C’mere,” Varric said hoarsely.

 

“Oh. Oh…”

 

Cassandra settled herself above his face, just out of reach and Varric can smell her, can nearly taste her and-

 

“Say it.”

 

“Please.”

 

A shiver shook Cassandra’s body, and Varric loves it. Loves watching all her muscles ripple. She’s gorgeous and so fucking hot he might explode if she doesn’t let him put his mouth on her now.

 

“Please, what?”

 

Cassandra’s voice is ragged, breathy. Beneath his palms, her thighs quiver.

 

“Let me have you, let me taste you. Now. Please,” Varric gritted out.

 

Maker’s ass, she’s going to drive him mad.

 

“I want to hear you scream, Seeker.”

 

Cassandra’s hips dropped an inch closer to his mouth. Close enough that he could trace the slickness of her folds with his tongue, if he tilted his head just so.

 

She’s hot and wet and he needs more, wants all of her beneath his mouth.

 

“Cassandra.”

 

When she finally settled against him, Varric groaned, sliding his tongue along the seam of her body. It’s not long before she’s riding his face in earnest. It’s lewd, the way she moans and writhes above him, how his chamber amplifies the wet sound of his mouth and her cunt.

 

Varric’s tongue swirls against her clit, and Cassandra shrieks.

 

She’s so wet and he’s so fucking hard, hard enough to ache, enough that his cock’s dripping already. Varric shuffled, hiked one of Cassandra’s thighs over his shoulder so he could reach down and close his hand around his cock and stroke.

 

Above him, Cassandra looked over her shoulder, and dropped flush against his face with a sharp cry.

 

“Varric-- oh, fuck-” she spat out, hips rocking feverishly.

 

She moves to the pace he’s set stroking his cock, Varric realizes. His hips buck, his tongue thrusts deeper. His fingers dig into her hips  and Cassandra cursed again, the noise going straight to his cock. Varric forsakes any pretense at elegance.

 

Cassandra shivers, and Varric can feel how close she is-

 

Until she pulls up and away and Varric pretends he doesn’t whimper at the loss.

 

“Fuck me.”

 

“Shit. Yes.”

 

He’s so close that when her cunt envelops him, Varric almost comes, feet braced against the bed as his body arches up and every muscle straining for release. Cassandra rises up slowly, and he feels every inch of her shake with the effort.

 

Varric’s breath hisses out between his teeth.

 

Cassandra slams herself down, back bowed, breasts hanging in his face and that’s the last straw.

 

“Fuck, please--”

 

Their hips snap together, rutting against one another in a frantic mess of sweat and spit and need.

 

Varric’s trembling fingers rub little circles against Cassandra’s clit.

 

“Cassandra, come for me,” he crooned. “Come for me.”

 

When she screams her release, Varric loses the last shred of his control. His hands grab at her hips, her fingers yank at his hair and he comes seeing stars.

 

Cassandra rolls off him, quaking through the aftershocks of her orgasm.

 

Varric’s never been this fucking spent in his life. His heart’s still rocketing against his ribcage.

 

“Fuck,” he exhaled heavily.

 

At his side, Cassandra mumbled her agreement.

 

“Just once?”

 

Cassandra stretched out beside him.

 

“Mm. I could perhaps be convinced to allow a second time,” she says, a wicked smile on her lips.

 

“I can be very convincing,” Varric says.

 

 


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In these troubled times, the Inquisition troops take any opportunity to throw a party. Partly riffing off a scene in The Man from U.N.C.L.E, and partly Ruffles’ fault, since she insisted on the end bit happening.

The tavern is loud, raucous with the joy of victory. It seems to Cassandra that they celebrate everything these days. No matter how small, there is always music and drinks to be had in excess.

Out on the battlements, the night is crisp and clear. Free from the heat of bodies crammed into a small space, it is easier to enjoy the night and the music she can still hear. Behind her, the door leading down into the tavern opens, and Cassandra’s breath catches in her throat.

“Not a dancer?” Varric leans against the cold stone.

He radiates warmth, there’s a faint sheen of sweat on his flushed face.

It is easier to say nothing, and so she does.

“Do you just not like it or is dancing not something they teach Seekers these days?”

“I can dance, Varric.”

Cassandra hides the tremble of her hands, balls them into fists instead. Varric looks up at her, his mouth smirking but his eyes are intent, focused on her.

The music from the tavern slows, swings into something low and yearning. Varric draws closer. Cassandra holds her breath, keeps still. Hopes he won’t notice the heat spilling across her face.

His fingers slide along her wrist. She can feel how warm he is, wouldn’t even have to reach in order to touch him. He has to know, must see what he does to her. But if he doesn’t, she can’t quite bear to tell him.

“Dance with me,” he says.

It’s on the tip of her tongue to refuse. To tell him again that she can’t, that she shouldn’t.

Cassandra parts her lips, ready to say no and flee back into the hectic heat of the tavern. Instead she closes her mouth and nods.

Varric’s hand cups hers, and Cassandra unclenches her fingers, lets their palms touch. His other hand comes up to her waist, rests in the small of her back. It’s no more than is appropriate, but the contact burns through the layers of her clothes.

They start the dance, slow to the music’s sweet melody, bodies pressed close and Cassandra knows they’re closer than the dance demands. Can’t bring herself to step backwards, to pull their movements into propriety.

It is a beautiful night, and Cassandra has eyes only for Varric. They swirl about the battlements beneath the stars and it is perfect. Until Varric stops.

“Song’s over,” he says.

He’s still holding her hand, the other low on her back keeping her near.

“It is?”

A smile curves across Varric’s face. His gaze flicks to her mouth, and Cassandra wonders why she’s never noticed his freckles.

The tavern door slams open, loud music and louder celebrants breaking the sweet silence.

Cassandra straightens, and Varric takes a step back.

“Party’s done,” he says.

“I suppose so.”

They stand together but apart, until someone below bellows for Varric.

“Goodnight, Seeker.”

Cassandra exhales.

“Goodnight, Varric.”

She does not watch him go.

 

*****

 

Varric descends the stairs, heart throbbing. For a moment, he’d thought that-

Never mind what he’d thought.

He chances a look up, one last look from a night he won’t soon forget. One he probably should. Cassandra’s silhouette is heartstoppingly beautiful.

In his imagination, she looks down at him again at the instant the music stops.

It would be smarter to walk away.

No one’s ever accused him of being smart.

When he reaches the top of the steps, he almost loses his nerve, and that’s why he stays.

“Cassandra.”

She startles, though he knows there’s no damn way she’ll ever admit to it. When she turns to face him, it’s with the familiar neutral mask he knows so well. But her eyes can’t lie to him, and behind the wariness there’s something he knows well.

Hope.

His hands reach out for hers.

Beneath his fingers, the pulse in her wrist jumps.

“Varric?” she says.

His name trembles on her lips, uncertain and perfect.

He tips his face up to hers, smiling though his stomach roils with nerves.

“Kiss me?”

Cassandra blinks at him and for one horrible moment he thinks he’s mistaken. Thinks that maybe it will be a relief when she tosses him over the wall.

Her lips are a little chapped.

Varric’s brain tries to process this, tries to cope with the fact that she’d kissed him, is kissing him and he’s not doing anything about it.

One of them sighs, breathes out a quiet little “_oh”_

Varric’s fingers thread through Cassandra’s hair, cup the back of her neck as he drags her down to him, arches up a little to meet her.

The kiss breaks. Cassandra’s shuddering inhale sends a shiver down Varric’s spine.

“Dance with me?”

Varric smiles.

“There’s no music, Seeker.”

“Do we need it?”

“No, I suppose we don’t,” he says, as he takes her hand in his.


	43. Terminal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Major Character Death
> 
> Cassandra leaves him, at last.

Varric sits on the chair the nurses brought him, when sitting on the hard plastic chairs or on the bed with Cassandra was no longer an option. It’s plush and soft, and he hates it. The sight of it makes him sick. It’s a chair made for the long haul.

 

This is it.

 

Much as he can’t bear to think of it, he can’t lie to himself either. Cassandra’s hand is dry and thin, it lies limp in his grasp, and it’s hard to believe this is the end. That this is the last time he’ll sit at her bedside, hold her hand, listen to the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

 

Outside, it’s not raining or snowing, nor has fate been cruel enough to make it sunny.  It’s dark. Peaceful and velvet-soft. A good night for leaving.

 

Cassandra lies in her hospital bed, finally bereft of tubes and wires. Neither of them look their best, her because she’s dying and him because she’s dying. Because there’s nothing he can do but wait and bear witness, and tell her she has been brave for long enough.

 

The words stick in his throat. All words, which were once his to use in wild abandon, are ashes and glue in his mouth.

 

There’s a stillness in the hospital room that sends Varric’s stomach fluttering. He waits, holding his breath, until Cassandra inhales again.

 

It’s time and he’s not ready.

 

Cassandra’s chest rises. Falls.

 

Varric prays, though he knows he shouldn’t.

 

Cassandra’s chest rises.

 

“It’s okay,” Varric tells her.

 

The words come out sounding callous.

 

Varric damns the chair, damns his voice. Damns Cassandra for falling sick, for leaving him here without her.

 

Crawls up into the bed with her, cuddled alongside her too thin body.

 

Cassandra breathes in.

 

“You were the best,” he tells her.

Cassandra exhales.

 

“You were so brave.”

 

There’s silence, and Varric trembles, caught between conflicting hopes.

 

“I love you, I love you so fucking much,” he says, and his voice breaks.

 

Everything breaks.

 

Near dawn, she doesn’t breathe. She rattles.

 

Varric waits for the next horrible breath, for the sound he’ll never stop hearing in his dreams.

 

It doesn’t come.

 

Cassandra’s hand is cold and pale in his.

 

Hawke reaches for him and Varric, childlike, lets himself be led away. Far away from the place where his wife isn’t, where she’ll never be again.

 

Outside, it is sunny.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY
> 
> I made myself sad with this one
> 
> 3


	44. Shades of Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric notices something about Cassandra. Ruffles named this.

He thinks it’s sunlight first, shining off the dust and cobwebs caught in the Seeker’s hair. There are a lot of reasons Varric hates caves; the filth is right up there with “being underground”. At least in the Forbidden Oasis, there are a lot of pools to bathe in. Nearly makes up for all the giants, spiders, caves, Venatori, mountains, caves, dead people, sand, and caves. Except that he’s not entirely sure he trusts even shallow pools in this place. Still, it’s a better option than wandering around covered in grit and Maker only knows what else. They all bathe, and Varric forgets.

 

****

 

Months later, the Seeker sits in the sunlight, enjoying a rare quiet moment. It’s a little odd to see her so still. But she doesn’t see him, and so he finds himself studying her. Varric tells himself it’s because seeing Cassandra Pentaghast at ease is something that happens once in a blue moon. And she’s definitely at ease, sitting hunched over beneath the tree by the training dummies. It’s the first time he’s seen her posture anything less than perfect.

 

Varric draws closer, quiet on the soft grass. He’s never seen her slouch before, and maybe what he’s taken for relaxation is actually grief. It has only been a few weeks since they returned from the butchery of Caer Oswin. Cassandra’s bleak gaze had met his, briefly. Her Order was another casualty to the list he’d started when he’d discovered that Thaig. Another casualty of his failures.

 

Cassandra giggles, and Varric takes a step back, startled. Her laugh is clear, girlish. Sunlight catches on her hair, spiky and dark. Something glitters, but Varric doesn’t stay to see what it is.

 

****

 

Out in the field, the Inquisitor and Madame de Fer blast the living shit out of the remaining behemoth. Somewhere in the underbrush, Varric waits, Cassandra’s head pillowed on his lap.

 

“Not long now,” Varric tells her.

 

Cassandra’s chest rises and falls as she breathes, and Varric watches the sight gratefully. The loose strands from her braid are plastered to the side of her face, but brushing them away only smears more blood across her skin.

 

Who knew getting slammed into a tree branch would hurt this much, Varric thinks, sending a dark look to the bit that protrudes from his side.

 

And people wonder why he hates nature.

 

The behemoth roars one last time, the ground shakes as it falls.

 

The Inquisitor calls out, and Varric can hear them crashing through the underbrush.

 

His fingers card through Cassandra’s hair.

 

“What did I say, Seeker?” Varric says. “Just in the nick of time.”

 

***

 

“I like it,” he says.

 

Cassandra’s cheeks flush but true to form she doesn’t look away. Though he gets the feeling she’d like to.

 

“You look very distinguished,” Varric adds.

 

Cassandra glares. Until he presses a kiss against the long rope of her braid, shot through with silver.

 

Her clear laughter rings through their room.

  
  



	45. Special Occasions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am back and I bring porn, for Ruffles. <3

“Varric!"

 

Cassandra gasps his name out, darts a quick glance towards the door.

 

"Maker. Maker, don't... don't stop."

 

The door stays shut and Varric doesn't stop, face buried between her legs. Cassandra tears her hand away from the wall, clenches it in his hair.

 

Varric moans against her, guttural and obscene, and Cassandra shudders. Her hips roll helplessly into his touch.

 

"Oh, _fuck_."

 

She never swears, unless it’s like this and Varric loves it. Does whatever he can to hear her curse and blaspheme. And if that means eating her out in the middle of a party? He’s the last one to complain.

 

The door rattles, some poor ass trying the handle. Cassandra sweeps a hand against her mouth, makes a strangled noise. Varric can _feel_ her get wetter. On the other side of the door, there’s a frustrated curse, and someone giggles. Varric slides a finger into Cassandra, crooks it. Feels her shake above him. The handle rattles again, the knob turns and Varric honestly can’t remember if he did lock the door.

 

Or if this door even locks.

 

Cassandra’s whole body thrums, her heels press into his back. Her grip on his hair is so tight and it shouldn’t be hot, she’s going to pull his damn hair out but it _is_.

 

The doorknob rattles one last time and doesn’t open.

 

Varric slips another finger into Cassandra’s cunt, pulls away to catch his breath and watch her rock her hips against his hand.

 

Footsteps patter away from them, down the hall.

 

Cassandra groans.

 

“You wanted to get caught, Seeker?”

 

Cassandra glares down at him, lip curling.

 

Varric leans in, flicks her clit with his tongue.

 

“You wanted to be seen, pants around your ankles, legs around my shoulders… my mouth on your cunt…”

 

Cassandra cuts him off midway, her other hand picking up where his tongue left off, rubbing eager little circles around her clit. Varric swings her legs off his shoulders, surges up to smear his mouth against her breasts. His fingers fuck into her, cunt wet and hot and quivering. He’s so fucking hard, so close already and he’s still got his breeches on.

 

“Varric,” she sighs his name out, breathy and desperate.

 

It nearly sends him right over the edge.

 

“Come for me. Come fucking yourself on my fingers, Seeker.”

 

Varric’s other hand frees his aching cock.

 

Cassandra’s whole body jerks, each muscle straining. She pants, mouth parted and Varric can see how close she is.

 

“Ancestors, yeah like that. Good girl, come for me,” Varric coaxes.

 

Cassandra’s nails sink into his back through his shirt. Her back arches up, her breasts thrust right into his face. Varric sucks a nipple into his mouth, laves it with his tongue.

 

His hand moves faster, frantically sliding over his cock until he’s so close to coming he can’t even breathe.

 

“Fuck, please,” he gasps out, forehead braced against Cassandra’s chest. “ _Come_.”

 

Cassandra stifles her scream with her fist, comes with a sob.

 

Varric grunts, shakes against her as her hands press him close. Falls over the edge with a hoarse moan as his come stripes Cassandra’s thigh.

 

They sink to the floor; a tangle of clothes and limbs, skin sticky with sweat and spit and come.

 

Between their heavy breathing, the noise from the party filters up. The last thing Varric wants to do is leave the comfort of Cassandra, and go back to the festivities.

 

“It is a special occasion, is it not?”

 

Varric’s brain takes a second to catch up.

 

“Saving the world usually is, Seeker.”

 

Cassandra rises up on elbow to look at him.

 

“Then perhaps we might-” She hesitates, and Varric hopes. “Perhaps we might find somewhere more comfortable to lie?”

 

“Tired?” Varric teases.

 

Before Cassandra can sputter at him, Varric grins. Kisses her cheek. It feels weirdly intimate.

 

“My rooms are closer. Spend the night?”

 

Cassandra huffs a laugh.

 

“Yes. Get moving, dwarf.”

 

“So pushy,” Varric says.

 

Cassandra is already up, struggling into her pants and boots. Varric tucks himself back into his trousers, re-ties his sash, and smooths his hair.

 

“How do I look?”

 

“Fine.”

 

“Looking fine yourself,” Varric leers.

 

Cassandra claps a hand over the red mark on her neck, glares at him.

 

Still smirking, Varric unlocks the door and pokes his head out.

 

“Coast’s clear, Seeker.”

 

Together, they sneak down the nearly empty corridors of Skyhold. Varric’s heart trips in his chest, exhilaration warring with a sudden case of nerves. They have one close call, just when his door’s in sight. Bolting down the hallway, Varric shoves Cassandra through the door, slams it shut behind them in a weird parallel to how their liaison started.

 

Except this time they’re in his room and that weird feeling of intimacy is back.

 

“I should. Perhaps this was not a good idea,” Cassandra says. Her cheeks are pink.

 

Varric’s heart catches in his chest.

 

“Stay. Just for the night.”

 

She looks at him, unsure and suddenly it’s important that she feel comfortable, that she stay.

 

“I promise to be a gentleman, Seeker.” That startles a laugh out of her. “And of course, there’s always-”

 

He doesn’t even have to finish the sentence. Cassandra’s face lights up.

 

“A new chapter?” she asks.

 

“ _Maybe_ ,” Varric says. “Look. Seeker. If you don’t want to stay, it’s fine. Just. So long as you’re comfortable.”

 

It’s the closest thing to outright sentiment they’ve come to.

 

“I...would like to, Varric.”

 

Her shy smile is more likely due to exhaustion, or to riding the high of victory and a good orgasm, and not him. But Varric can dream.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	46. Head Scratches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra has magic fingers. For novemberocean ^-^

“Don’t stop,” Varric groans.

 

Cassandra chuckles, but she doesn’t stop and Varric would thank the Maker but it’s too much damn effort right now. Instead he buries his face against the crook of her neck. She always smells fantastic, and he’s not quite sure why, or how. She smells just as good fresh out of the bath as she does after five days in the field. Whatever it is, he loves it. Can never get enough of it. Of her.

 

Cassandra’s fingers still, and Varric nips at her throat in protest.

 

“Tease,” he says fondly.

 

He can’t see her smile, but he feels it. Particularly when she brushes her lips across his temple.

 

When her fingers begin their slow, firm strokes again, Varric nearly purrs in satisfaction.

 

Her fingers sift through his hair, brush it clear from his face. The pads of her fingers linger at his temples, rubbing languorous circles. It’s enough to make him drowsy, the soothing smell of Cassandra and her warmth, her fingers caressing his scalp.

  
Varric sighs, an inarticulate noise of satisfaction, pressing himself closer to Cassandra. This is peace, he thinks.

  
  



	47. Wishes and Kisses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I blame Ruffles for this inexplicable Harry Potter AU

She is in her seventh year when it happens. When she stumbles upon a strange mirror in a forgotten room deep in the castle. Everyone has heard whispers of a mirror that shows you what you truly desire in all the world.

 

At first she doesn't look. Can't look for fear of what it might show.

 

But Cassandra did not become Head Girl of Gryffindor because she was fearful.

 

So she looks.

 

His face is so familiar to her. It takes her breath away to see him standing there, next to her. To see the smile gracing his face, and the comfortable way her reflection leans into him.

 

_Varric._

 

Hufflepuff's biggest troublemaker. A continual pain in her ass, and-

 

She loves him so much that the sight of her reflection's happiness is agony. But she is Head Girl, and has never let anything beat her for long. Cassandra bears up under the pain, the constriction in her chest that threatens to choke her.

 

Turning her back on the Mirror is hard. But imagining a life where Varric Tethras would give her the time of day is harder.

 

****

 

He is not surprised to find the Mirror. It is probably appropriate punishment for skulking around the castle at a godless hour. But he can't sleep for the pressure in his chest.

 

Of all the things he could've seen, of all the people. It could've been worse. But this. _Her_. God, he'd almost have preferred seeing one of the endless accusing faces in his dreams.

 

Gryffindor's Head Girl. Their former star Beater.

 

Cassandra Pentaghast stands reflected before him.

 

She looks so real.

 

He'd almost check to see if she were really beside him, but Varric knows it's fake because she'd never be draped over him the way she is over his reflection. She has never touched him. Never looked at him the way she does his reflection. Full of love and adoration.

 

Varric can't stop looking, even though it hurts.

 

He stays til dawn, eyes fixed on the vision of his own happiness.

 

****

 

Cassandra's eyes track Varric as he moves across the Great Hall, as she has done possibly millions of times in their seven years together. Not that they are together. At all.

 

Everyone at the Hufflepuff table greets him with smiles, laughter. He has a friendly word for each person, from shy first year to his fellow seventh years.

 

He looks up, and Cassandra tears her gaze away. Pretends she was trying to meet the eye of whichever Gryffindor has the plate of pancakes.

 

The memory of the Mirror's reflection eats at her. They are more cordial than ever now, but that means little. Their teasing has less bite, and they have even been known to laugh together.

 

But they are not friends. And there is no way someone like him could look at someone like her.

 

A first year draped in a huge scarf looks up at her with huge eyes.

 

A Hufflepuff first year. Who passes her a little package.

 

"Thank you," she says. It sounds gruff even to her own ears, but she smiles, and the little Hufflepuff offers her a shy smile before scampering back to her own table.

 

There is no note. Cassandra unfolds the paper, and reveals three strawberries, deep red and dipped in dark chocolate. They are luscious against the white paper. Cassandra can feel her face heat up, a rich blush spreading across her cheeks. Her gaze flicks up over to the Hufflepuff table.

 

Varric's in deep conversation with Merrill, who really should be back at her own table but Cassandra doesn't care about that. What she does care about is how Varric's eyes meet hers, and a smile she might've missed if she didn't know his face so well.

 

_Oh._

Cassandra looks down at the three large strawberries, and their thick coat of chocolate.

 

Smiles. Wide and awkward, and happy.

 

When she picks up a strawberry and brings it up to her mouth, she finds she was wrong. There is a note, beneath the fruit.

 

_C- enjoy them - V.T_

 

Short and simple and so bland for the school's most notorious wordsmith. But Cassandra's heart melts nonetheless.

 

She catches him watching her again, and there is something there. Something she knows.

 

It's not- it couldn't be. She has to be wrong. But she might not be, there is the barest chance that maybe he... maybe he does not quite dislike her.

 

In the crush of students leaving the Great Hall, they somehow find each other.

 

"Thank you. For the strawberries," Cassandra says awkwardly.

 

"Don't worry about it," Varric says. "My pleasure."

 

He winces after the words, just a small twitch that has Cassandra quirking an eyebrow at him.

 

"If it was a trouble, you should not have bothered," she says.

 

Goddamnit this is how their conversations always go, and Cassandra can feel it slipping away from her.

 

"I love strawberries," she says in a rush.

 

That's probably the stupidest thing she's ever said to him.

 

****

 

She looks so damn uncomfortable and nervous that Varric forgets they're standing in the Great Hall as students move around them.

 

She's gorgeous.

 

Cassandra is so heart stoppingly gorgeous, she has to see the lovesick way he looks up at her, and at this point he doesn't care. Varric has gone through seven years with this woman, five where he thought he hated her. It’s been too long pretending.

 

"Cassandra," he says.

 

His hand brushes against hers, fingers curling around her palm and any second she is going to slug him.

 

Her fingers close around his.

 

"So do you-"

 

"I-"

 

They laugh and it's a bit stilted.

 

"Thank you, for the strawberries," Cassandra says.

 

"More where those came from, if you're interested," Varric says.

 

Her hand is warm in his, and there is a dark red blush spreading across her high cheekbones.

 

"Trying to bribe me?" Cassandra asks.

 

"That depends," Varric says.

 

"On what?"

 

They're standing close together, close enough that they're very nearly pressed up against one another. The tension is so thick, Varric can barely breathe.

 

Cassandra looks down at him, eyes shining with mirth.

 

"On whether you can be bribed," Varric says.

 

"That depends," Cassandra says to him.

 

"On?"

 

"If you have something I want."

 

They're so damn close Varric can smell the light scent of her perfume.

 

"Strawberries not enough for you?"

 

Cassandra's blush deepens.

 

"What do you want?" he asks, barely recognizes his own voice.

 

Her mouth quirks up, and her shoulders stiffen. He thinks she's about to run but then, he's been wrong about her before.

 

She exhales slowly, shakily.

 

"You."

 

Varric nearly can't believe his ears.

 

Cassandra's mouth is pressed into a flat line, and  rather than her blush, she's gone pale.

 

"You want... me."

 

McGonagall clears her throat.

 

Cassandra looks mortified. Varric can only curse his luck.

 

But McGonagall gives them both an unimpressed look.

 

"I believe the third floor charms room is unoccupied," she says, gliding past them with such poise that Varric thinks he's hallucinated.

 

Cassandra's gone back to that beet red blush he's beginning to grow so fond of.

 

"That woman," she growls.

 

"Thought you liked the professor. Head Girl and all that?"

 

Cassandra frowns.

 

"I do but. For her to-" she makes a frustrated noise in the back of her throat.

 

Varric smiles. Lets go of her hand.

 

"It's alright," he says.

 

Cassandra looks confused. Then angry.

 

She snatches his hand up in hers, grip tight.

 

"We are going to the third floor," she grits out.

 

"And we are talking," she adds.

 

****

 

Varric lets her drag him up the stairs, all the way through to the third floor.

 

Cassandra would feel bad about it. But they have spent seven years dancing around one another, and she will not let anything get in the way now. Not when they're so close.

 

"Not that I don't love it when you're forceful, Cassandra, but you've got a hell of a grip."

 

"Oh!"

 

Cassandra lets go of his hand like it's a dementor's claw.

 

"I..."

 

"I am sorry, Varric."

 

It is not too late to accept a transfer to Durmstrang, Cassandra thinks.

 

He grins up at her with that rakish look he's had down pat since second year.

 

"Didn't say I minded."

 

He leans against a desk. Still smiling at her, in a way that makes it hard to remember why they'd never got along before this.

 

Cassandra laces her fingers together, pulls on her Head Girl courage and stares at Varric. Who promptly laughs.

 

"Relax. I'm not going to bite," he says. "Unless you want?"

 

Cassandra can feel a flush of heat that starts at her face and burns its way down to pool in her stomach.

 

_Varric's mouth against hers, his teeth scraping against her skin..._

 

She shakes her head.

 

"About what I said. In the Great Hall."

 

Varric meets her eyes.

 

"You said you wanted me," he says.

 

"I...do. I also," Cassandra rakes a hand through her hair.

 

"I like you," she says plainly. "I have for a while. Varric-"

 

He stares up at her, eyes wide and dark.

 

"Date me."

 

"What?" Cassandra startles, looks down at him in shock.

 

Go out with me. Be my-" he stops, swallows the words.

 

Cassandra steps closer to him.

 

"Are you...asking me to be your-"

 

She can't even say the words, they stick in her throat. She wants them too badly.

 

"Yeah. I am."

 

Cassandra slips her hand into his, draws closer until she can feel his chest move with each ragged breath. Of course, it might be her nervous breathing she feels.

 

"Ask me," she says, inclining her head towards him.

 

They're so close, one move is all it would take for them to kiss.

 

"Be my girlfriend," he says.

 

"Yes," Cassandra says before he can even finish.

 

****

 

Their lips meet, barely brush against one another but it's a kiss unlike any other.

 

Cassandra gasps, and Varric arches up, deepens the kiss. She backs him up against the desk, hands skimming down his sides and along his back.

 

Something on the desk topples over, and the noise startles them both.

 

Cassandra laughs, her face tucked against Varric's hair.

 

Varric can't keep his hands off her, and it's not just because she's so goddamn hot. It's because he finally gets to touch her. His hands tremble against her sides, thumbs stroking along her stomach. He smiles against her collarbone.

 

"We skipped first period," Cassandra murmurs.

 

"You're a bad influence, sweetheart."

 

She pulls back to look down at him, a gleam in her eyes he likes.

 

"Want to play hooky? I heard there was someone in Hufflepuff who could get some chocolate covered strawberries..."

 

"It's a date."

 

Varric grins stupidly up at her, enjoying the equally goofy grin on her face.

 

Seventh year is going to be fantastic.


	48. A Modest Proposal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> novemberocean tagged me in a five minute writing thing, and I wrote part of this idea I'd been kicking around with Ruffles (who also named it, i am a sucker for punny things).

They have been apart for far too long, in Cassandra’s opinion. Varric has responsibilities as Viscount, and she has her own duties as a member of the Divine’s council. Logically she knows that four and a half months is no great time. They have been parted for longer. But she is tired. The grind of fighting daily with nobles and jumped up politicians is thankless and the only respite comes from Varric’s letters. From these she knows he is just as tired, that he feels every mile of distance between them acutely.

 

Something has to give, between them.

 

Fortunately, just as they begin to slide closer and closer to five months of seperation, Divine Victoria announces that the Council will be taking a recess. To commemorate the Inquisition’s creation three years prior.

 

With a light heart, Cassandra packs. It takes all her willpower not to simply throw herself upon the nearest horse and ride to Varric’s side.

 

***

 

Skyhold is alive with people. Bright banners fly from every possible height, and the keep is awash in flowers.

 

Slowly, members of the Inner Circle arrive. Cassandra was one of the first to reach Skyhold, traveling with the Divine, trying to pretend that she wasn’t watching every caravan with mounting anxiety.

 

The Herald’s Rest is much as she remembers it. Even Bull is back in his old spot, lounging in the corner watching people come and go.

 

By mid afternoon, even Vivienne is sitting in the tavern. But Varric has still not arrived and Cassandra is under strict instructions to not hit anything.

 

When the messenger strides in, Cassandra fears the worst. An assassin or bandits, or the Merchants’ Guild.

 

“Cassandra Tethras?”

 

The tavern quiets. Cassandra can feel their eyes upon her. It must be some mistake, some joke of Varric’s. But she accepts the messenger’s missive with a trembling hand.

_Cassandra Tethras_

 

It is Varric’s handwriting.

 

Cassandra slits the envelope open, pulls out the piece of card inside.

 

_Has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?_

 

Oh. Oh Maker he can’t possibly mean-

 

Swallowing past the lump in her throat, Cassandra means to turn around and hide her face and her confusion.

 

Instead she comes face to face with Varric.

 

He sinks to one knee, a small velvet box in one hand.

 

“Cassandra-” he says. His voice shakes.

 

Cassandra loses her battle against the tears that have been threatening since she saw the messenger.

 

“I love you. Seeker, I love you,” he says.

 

Cassandra doesn’t remember falling to her knees.

 

“Yes. Yes.”

 

“I haven’t asked you yet,” Varric says weakly.

 

“Get on with it then!” Cassandra laughs, shoving his shoulder.

 

“Cassandra Allegra Portia Calogera Filomena whatever the hell else Pentaghast, will you marry me?”

 

Cassandra can only nod as Varric slides the ring on her finger. The ruby glints in the dim light.

 

“Kiss ‘im!” someone hollers.

 

A cheer goes up as Cassandra nearly bowls Varric over.

 

 


	49. Halloween Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Cassandra go on a date and watch a scary movie in the spirit of Halloween!

An unholy shriek rends the air, bloodcurdling in it's fear.

 

Cassandra flinches, and immediately curses because Varric looks up at her with a shit eating grin.

 

"Scared?"

 

"Of this? Never. I was startled, that's all," Cassandra sniffs.

 

Anyone would be taken aback by such a sudden noise, she tells herself. She ignores Varric's suggestive eyebrow waggle as he pats the couch cushion next to him. Her pride won't let her admit that the movie does have her a little unsettled. She will not give Varric the satisfaction of being right.

 

Not that he's right. She's not afraid. She just doesn't want him to think he's right.

 

***

 

So far as dates go, Varric's pretty sure he's fucked this one up. Maybe watching a scary movie with Cassandra wasn't the best plan. Then again, what was he expecting? That she'd cling to him, hide her face against his shoulder?

 

It's a little embarrassing to admit, but he had sort of hoped that she'd at least sit next to him. Not on the other side of the couch.

 

On screen someone's slowly impaled, and Varric winces.

 

Maybe he'll end up clinging to her. This damn movie is fucking creepy.

 

This is their tenth date, and Varric can't believe he remembers something like that. But Cassandra's been different from the start. Mostly because they'd practically hated each other on sight.

 

That's probably a strong word. He'd never really hated her but-

 

Someone screams again, and god knows Varric's going to be hearing that in his nightmares.

 

This was not what he'd hoped for. But at least Cassandra seems to be enjoying herself on the opposite side of the couch.

 

***

 

This is not what she’d imagined when Varric had invited her back to his apartment for a Halloween date.

 

Some awful actress screams again and the noise sends shivers down Cassandra’s spine.

 

If only he hadn’t teased her; if only her stupid pride hadn’t been piqued. She could at least be sitting closer to him. Maybe he’d put his arm around her shoulder, and hold her tightly. Varric catches her gaze, and Cassandra quickly snaps her attention back to the screen.

 

God Almighty but this movie is horrible. She’s going to have nightmares for a week.   
  
Her thoughts slip back to Varric.

 

He lounges back against the couch, looking completely unruffled by the violence unfolding in front of them. Hair pulled back into a half bun, the flickering light catches on the streaks of grey at his temples, and in his stubble.

 

Cassandra swallows heavily. He is a handsome man. It sometimes catches her unawares, how good looking he is. And-

 

He smiles, and her heartbeat stutters.

 

“How’re you holding up?” he asks.

 

“I’m perfectly alright. Though, I don’t understand how these women can make such stupid mistakes. Aren’t they meant to be soldiers?”

 

“People do dumb things when they’re scared, tiger.”

 

Cassandra wrinkles her nose.

 

Varric laughs, and good God she is so far gone for him. The realization hits her all of a sudden, like a blindfold being taken off.

 

She might love him.

 

“Who do you think will live?” she asks.

 

“My money’s on the brunette. Laurie?” he says.

 

“Laurie’s the blonde.”

  
“Well, whoever the brunette is, then.”

  
  


***

 

The movie ends, and Varric can’t pretend he’s not relieved. Definitely the last time he takes movie advice from Hawke.

 

Cassandra looks at her phone, and grimaces.

 

“What’s the matter?”

 

“I hadn’t realized it was so late,” she says. “It’s 3:30!”

 

God he loves her voice. She could read a menu and he’d hang on every word.

 

She quirks an eyebrow, and Varric realizes he’s been staring and not talking. Maybe he can blame it on the late hour.

 

“Good thing tomorrow’s Saturday,” he says.

 

Cassandra yawns, and smiles sleepily at him. “Indeed.”

 

It suddenly occurs to him that she might leave, and he doesn’t want her to. Not now, not in the near future.

 

Possibly not ever.

 

The thought’s a bit scary.

 

“It is late though. You could stay the night, if you want?” Varric smiles, hopes she doesn’t see how nervous he is. “Promise I won’t bite, tiger.”

 

She rolls her eyes at the nickname, but her tired smile becomes something fond.

 

But she hesitates, eyes flicking down the hall to his bedroom.

 

Varric swallows around the thickness in his throat.

 

“The couch is a futon, you can sleep out here if you like.”

 

Cassandra’s smile stiffens. Just for a second, but it’s enough to make him regret offering to let her stay the night. It’s too soon.

 

“That would be lovely,” she says.

 

Getting up makes his knees creak a little. But it’s good to be standing and moving around. Any longer on the couch barely two feet away from Cassandra and he might do something foolish. Like ask to kiss her.

 

God he’s too old for this. Too old to feel this way.

 

On his way to the linen closet (he’s a bachelor so it’s really the top shelf in his closet), he sneaks a look at Cassandra. At the nape of her neck, the way her short black hair curls at the tips.

 

His heart twists.

 

Taking a deep breath, he pulls the spare sheets down off the shelf, checks to make sure they’re clean and he didn’t just bundle them away after Hawke’s last visit. Does anything to keep from going back out into the living room until he can get control of his heart.

 

***

 

Varric comes back into the living room with a smile and an armful of sheets and blankets. He’s nearly hidden behind the mound of fabric.

 

It’s terribly cute.

 

“Lend a hand, tiger?” he asks.

 

Cassandra can’t help but smile at him, as she takes the pile of bedding from him. Varric folds the couch out, straightens out the cushions.

 

They make the bed together. Cassandra blushes the entire time. It might be her imagination, but she’s fairly certain Varric’s cheeks and nose are pink, too.

 

“So. Guess this is goodnight?” he says, somewhat awkwardly.

 

The bed between them is obnoxiously huge. Cassandra resents it a little.

 

“Good night, Varric. Thank you for letting me stay the night,” she says.

  
They smile at each other.

 

Cassandra licks her lips. Casts about for something to do, or say.

 

“Could you lend me something to sleep in?”

 

Varric’s eyebrows hike up. His eyes heat.

 

“Think I can manage that.”

 

He leaves, and Cassandra wants desperately to follow him.

 

He’s back with a t-shirt and sweatpants before she can convince herself that going after him is a good idea.

 

“Thank you, Varric.”

  
Without thinking, Cassandra bends and brushes a kiss against his cheek.

 

He smells good.

 

Something trembles in the air between them.

 

Cassandra straightens up, takes a step back.

 

“Goodnight, tiger.”

 

“Goodnight, Varric.”

 

***

 

He’s an idiot.

 

Not only did their date not go as planned, but now he’s the one having trouble sleeping.

 

4:15am

 

His phone is mocking him. Cassandra is sleeping on his couch, in his clothes.

 

Something rustles, a floorboard creaks. Varric’s pulse jumps in his throat.

 

“Idiot,” Varric mutters.

 

The floorboard creaks again, closer now.

 

Silence echoes throughout the apartment. Varric’s eyes fix on his bedroom door.

 

Creak

 

“God fucking dammit. It’s nothing.”

 

He rolls over. Tries to ignore the feeling that there’s something there, just beyond his door.

 

Varric’s just about to doze off, when the knocking startles him awake again.

 

It takes a few seconds of heavy breathing before he remembers that Cassandra’s spending the night and it’s probably her. Knocking at his bedroom door. At four thirty in the morning.

 

“Cassandra?”

 

He leans against the door jamb. It’s definitely Cassandra standing in the hall, drowning a little in her borrowed clothes.

 

She shuffles a little, hands twisting the hem of her shirt.

 

“I cannot sleep,” she says in a rush, “Every creak, each strange sound- it is your fault for putting on such a frightening movie-”

 

“So you were scared!”

 

She gives him a withering look.

 

“I can’t sleep either,” Varric says. “You wanna come in?”

 

“If...if that is alright?”

 

“Might be easier to sleep together. In the same bed, I mean.”

 

They stand in the doorway blushing at each other before Varric remembers how to move.

 

Getting back into bed, Varric feels acutely conscious of himself. Of the woman lying in bed next to him.

 

“Good night, tiger.”

 

She hesitates, and he wonders if she’s fallen asleep. Until the sheets rustle, and Cassandra’s curling up behind him, one arm snaking around his front to clasp his hand.

 

“Night Varric,” she mumbles, clearly already half asleep.

 

Maybe the date didn’t go all that badly, Varric thinks happily as sleep overtakes him.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Halloween everyone!


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the "single parent/teacher AU" comes a fic about Cassandra, Varric, and Aurelia at Halloween.

Aurelia bounces down the stairs, taking the last two in a huge leap.

 

"Easy, pipsqueak. Don't scare your ma," Varric says, as he hops down the last two stairs.

 

Behind them, Cassandra sighs heavily.

 

Then jumps down the last three steps.

 

"Show off," Varric says fondly.

 

"Can we go can we go can we go?" Aurelia chants.

 

"Have you asked Varric if he's ready?" Cassandra asks.

 

"Mr- oops. Um. Uncle Varric? Are you ready to go trick or treating?"

 

Aurelia looks up at him with big brown eyes, bright and eager.

 

"Do you have your flashlight? Your tiara? Your badge?" Varric asks.

 

Aurelia nods vigorously, nearly knocking her tiara off.

 

Cassandra hid a grin behind her hand. Only her daughter would want to go trick or treating as a princess police officer, Varric thought.

 

"You've forgotten something, Aurelia," Cassandra says.

 

"Nooo, I have all- OH"

 

Cassandra caught her daughter up in a tight hug.

 

"Be good for Varric, darling."

 

"Don't let her run too far ahead of you, make sure she holds your hand when you cross the street-"

 

"Cassandra."

 

"Don't let her eat any candy until you get home-"

 

"C'mere, sweetheart."

 

Varric wraps his arms around Cassandra's waist. Strokes her back slowly.

 

"Me and the pipsqueak will be fine," he says. "I promise, I'll take good care of her."

 

Aurelia bounces impatiently from foot to foot.

 

"Are you two gonna be gross all night? It's Halloween!"

 

"She gets this from you," Cassandra murmurs against Varric's shoulder.

 

"It's Halloween, kiddo. It's the best time of year to be gross," Varric says.

 

Leaning up, he plants a kiss square on Cassandra's mouth. Aurelia sighs behind them.

 

"Now that is all you," Varric says.

 

Cassandra laughs, kisses his cheek. "Get going, you two!"

 

One last kiss, and Varric is out the door and fast in pursuit of one sparkly princess police officer.

 

Cassandra's street is awash with hordes of kids and parents. There are witches and wizards, cops, robbers, princesses, dragons, monsters, insects, and even a kid dressed as a marshmallow. It’s a riot of noise and colour as kids zip along from house to house with shrieks of laughter.

 

As they start down the street, Aurelia slips her little hand into his, and Varric's heart stutters. Her hand can barely wrap around two of his fingers. She swings her pumpkin bag in the other hand, one little chocolate bar from her mom rattling around on the inside.

 

Cassandra trusts him with her child.

 

It's a strange thought, one that warms him straight through.

 

Aurelia skips along, eager to get to the next house.

 

He's been a teacher for over fifteen years. Parents trust him with their kids for most of the year. But this is different, somehow. Aurelia is Cassandra's little girl.

 

"Uncle Varric?"

 

They've come to the first house, and Aurelia looks up at him a little nervously. The front porch glows with eerie green light.

 

"Want me to come with you?"

 

Aurelia nods, and her grip on his fingers tightens a little. As they draw closer to the door, Varric stays at the bottom of the steps while Aurelia rings the doorbell.

 

"Trick or treat!" she calls out.

 

The woman who answers the door grins, and holds out a big bowl of candy.

 

"Happy Halloween! I like your costume," she says.

 

"Thank you," Aurelia says shyly.

 

Varric smiles up at the woman, and holds his hand out for Aurelia.

 

Aurelia grabs his hand and jumps down the last step.

 

After the first three houses, she doesn't always hold his hand. Unless there are scary costumes. They avoid the house with all the skeletons in the front yard. Varric always waits for her at the end of the driveways, standing in a cluster with other parents or guardians.

 

"Ugh, those people put pop up zombies in their yard again," one woman complains.

 

"Well we just came down from the south end of the street, and number 34 has one of those motion activated things that scream," another man says.

 

"Thanks for the heads up," Varric says.

 

All of them have one eye on the porch where the kids are crowding a young man holding a bowl of treat bags.

 

Aurelia skips back towards them, and immediately goes shy. Her small hand holds his tightly, and she hides behind his leg.

 

"Hey officer princess, how'd you make out?" Varric asks, waving goodbye to the other parents.

 

She grins up at him, fishes out a little bag bursting at the seams with candy.

 

"Nice. Need me to hold anything?"

 

They move off to the side so Aurelia can dump the contents of her pumpkin bag into the ridiculously huge bag Cassandra had given him.

 

"I like it when the parents dress up," Aurelia announces part way through the night.

 

She doesn't mean him, he's not her dad and god only knows what Aurelia thinks of him, but Varric's glad he wore a costume.

 

"My mom likes you," she says conversationally.

 

"I like your mom," Varric says very sincerely.

 

It's almost 8pm, and Aurelia's dragging her feet a little. It's about time for them to turn around and head back to the house.  She yawns once, twice, her tiara in danger of falling off. They make it a few more houses, before she stumbles.

 

"Alright short stuff, c'mere," Varric says.

 

Bending down, he opens his arms and Aurelia wraps her little arms around his neck. Carrying a little girl and a bag of junk food nearly the size of said little girl is no small feat. But it's not so far back to the house. Still, it's a good thing he's kept in shape, Varric thinks. Aurelia sighs, snuffles a little, and Varric feels his heart actually melt.

 

"Uncle Varric?"

 

"Yeah shortstuff?"

 

"I like you too," she says.

 

"I like you a whole lot," Varric tells her. "You and your mom are my favourite ladies."

 

"Good."

 

Varric can't help but laugh at that.

 

Cassandra's waiting for them on the front porch. Varric hands her the bag of candy, laughs again at her expression.

 

"We had a good night," he says simply.

 

Aurelia is fast asleep in his arms. When Cassandra smiles at them, Varric's pretty sure his heart might burst.

 

He loves them both so much. Aurelia is precocious and sweet, and so much her mother that it's funny. And her mother...

 

"You wanna put Aurelia to bed?" he asks.

 

Cassandra picks her daughter up, kisses the top of his head. "I'll be right back down. Are you staying?"

 

"Yeah. If that's okay?"

 

"Of course, love."

 

She heads upstairs, and Varric takes his shoes off, paces around the kitchen nervously.

 

He spends more time at Cassandra's house than his own apartment, these days. It occurs to him that it's because his apartment holds nothing he really wants. It's all here.

 

"Varric?"

 

Cassandra crosses the room, into his arms.

 

"Thank you for taking Aurelia out tonight," she says.

 

"It was... it was great, Cass," he says.

 

"Are you alright?"

 

"I love you so much," Varric says, tightens his grip around her waist. "You and Aurelia."

 

"Oh," Cassandra says. A little thickly, Varric thinks.

 

"You trusted me with your kid."

 

"Varric, you're a teacher."

 

"Yeah but she's your kid, and-" Varric breaks off, finds he can't trust his voice.

 

"I want her to be mine, too."

 

Cassandra's breath catches.

 

"Varric, are you?" she pulls back, looks down at him with wide eyes.

 

"I- yeah. I am. Marry me, Cassandra. I love you, and I love your little girl. It would be a privilege to be part of your family," he says. "You don't have to answer right away. Hell I mean. This isn't the most romantic proposal. But I mean it. Every word."

 

"You ass," Cassandra says. "Of course. Of course I'll marry you."

 

Varric doesn’t quite know what to say, can’t speak around the lump in his throat. Rather than try, he pulls Cassandra close, folds his arms around her and just breathes. Cassandra’s fingers stroke through his hair, her heartbeat thumps in his ear.

 

He is exactly where he wants to be.

 

“Happy Halloween, Cass.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Horribly sweet just like halloween candy. Hope everyone had a good time!


	51. we all fall [down]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A cute birthday fic for novemberocean/TwilightHawke
> 
> Happy birthday, dear!

Heat shivered across the sand dunes, rippled around Cassandra’s ankles like water. In her armour, sweat slicked down her skin, pooling at the small of her back. Any uncovered skin was gritty, and beginning to turn pink. Sand slid beneath her feet. No one in the party spoke, too enervated from the closeness of the air and the wretched heat of the day. They trudged mindlessly through the desert, following the trail of Venatori conspirators, more of the horrible shards the Inquisitor collected, more campsites to establish the Inquisition’s foothold.

 

Cassandra’s lips twitched into a half smile as she thought of suggesting to the Inquisitor that they leave the Venatori to the desert.

 

The next thing that happened was strange. She meant to take a step, and instead-

 

Cassandra blinked, sat bolt upright and then sank very carefully back down as her vision greyed out.

 

Someone’s arm wound around her shoulders, and Cassandra caught the faint but familiar smell of sage.

  
  
“Varric?” she rasped out.

 

He helped her sit upright (slowly, this time), and held a canteen to her mouth.

  
  
“You know, there are better ways to get a man’s attention, Seeker.”

 

Cassandra swallowed, relishing the feeling of cool water coursing through her body, before answering.

 

“What on earth do you mean?” she demanded.

 

“You fainted straight into my arms,” Varric said. He grinned at her, cheekily. “If you wanted me to hold you, you could’ve just asked.”

 

Cassandra groaned, and tried to glare at him.

 

“In your dreams,” she said.

 

Varric clicked his tongue.

 

“You know I don’t dream, Seeker. Of course, that doesn’t mean I don’t fantasize…” he gave her what he likely considered a lascivious look.

 

Cassandra huffed out a laugh.

 

"Foolish dwarf."

 

"You bring out the worst in me, Seeker," Varric said cheerfully.

 

He lowered her back down carefully, and Cassandra noted that someone had arranged all her things in the way she preferred. And that someone had cleaned and put away her armour and weaponry.

 

"Who-" she started to say.

 

The Inquisitor carefully popped his head into the tent.

 

"How's the patient?" he asked.

 

Varric moved farther from the bedroll, and stood up. Cassandra heard the crackles as his joints popped.

 

"Ask her yourself," Varric said, gesturing. "Catch you later, Seeker."

 

Cassandra groaned and glared at his retreating back.

 

"He's a fussy old thing, isn't he?" the Inquisitor remarked.

 

"Varric?" Cassandra looked up at the Inquisitor. "Far from it."

 

He looked down at he with a bemused expression.

 

"Well I won't argue with a sick woman," he said.

 

Cassandra grumbled.

 

"You're clearly feeling better," the Inquisitor said. "Gave us all a bit of a fright, collapsing like that."

 

Cassandra felt her cheeks flush.

 

"I apologize-"

 

"Don't apologize, just don't do it again. You're only human," he said. "Though I must ask you make an effort to not do that around Varric again, he's getting far too old for scares like that."

 

"He's only forty!" Cassandra protested.

 

"Yes, and when you dropped like a bag of lead onto the sand, I thought he wasn't going to make it to forty-one. Have a care, will you?"

 

The Inquisitor sighed, and patted Cassandra’s hand.

 

“We were all very worried about you, Cassandra.”

 

“I am sorry, my friend.” Cassandra wound her fingers around the Inquisitor’s.

 

“I have one more request to make of you, actually,” the Inquisitor said, standing and dusting their knees off.

 

“Yes?”

 

“Kiss that dwarf and put us all out of our misery, will you?”

 

The Inquisitor winked and ducked out of the tent before Cassandra could finish sputtering.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANKS RUFFLES FOR HELPING ME OUT AND FOR GIVING ME THE TITLE AND THE TWO FUNNIEST LINES.


	52. Collarbone Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ruffles asked for it, so I wrote it. Because who doesn't love cold weather cuddles, and maybe some pining?

 

Varric is a welcome, warm relief from the unrelenting cold in the Emprise. At least they are on their way back home, back to Skyhold and the clean mountain air, away from the destruction and grinding misery of the Emprise and all its red lyrium. Cassandra loathes the place, and constantly finds herself asking the Maker and Andraste to grant her the strength to endure it with grace.

 

Sometimes she prays that their trip will be a short one.

 

That one often goes unanswered.

 

Still, she has Varric with her and it is easier to cope with the Emprise when he’s there. Granted, he’s a pain in the ass. But their friendship has at least progressed so far that it is not awkward to share a bedroll with him. Particularly since it takes the edge off the freezing air. Varric gives off more heat than a wood stove. Cassandra wriggles closer to him, adjusts the tangle of their limbs to better absorb the warmth from his body. Half asleep, Varric only mumbles his complaint about being jostled.

 

It is always a sight that warms her, that moment between sleeping and waking where Varric is truly at ease. There is a soft intimacy to it. Carefully, she sweeps his hair from his brow, tucks the loose locks behind his ear. Drowsily, Varric drapes his arm across her waist. His eyelashes tickle her shoulder, where he’s lain his head. Her heart thunders in her chest. The air is heavy, thick with the sudden fire of her want for him.

 

Cassandra’s unsteady fingers thread through the hair at the nape of his neck, soft and sleek. Her eyes stare unseeing up at the canvas tent, as she tries to think of anything other than Varric.

 

Her fingers stroke his hair.

 

Varric’s mouth moves against her skin. A gentle kiss. The touch of his lips on her collarbone burns, fans the flames devouring her.

 

He mutters something, sleepy nonsense.

 

Cassandra’s mouth flattens into a thin line, as she finally looks back down at him.

 

Varric sleeps, while Cassandra sends another prayer winging up to the Maker.

  
  



	53. watch and learn (nsfw)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric gets the opportunity for some hands on learning.

Cassandra doesn’t notice him come in, and that’s the first strange thing, though Varric doesn’t think much of it at the time. The second strange thing is that she’s fixated on her laptop, which never happens. Cassandra’s made a point of not relying on technology so much as her peers. He can’t really be excused for sneaking up on her, but Varric had thought he’d catch her reading fanfiction again, or catching up one one of the soap operas she always swears she doesn’t watch. By the time he realizes what she  _ is  _ watching, what she’s doing, it’s far too late. 

 

A woman with her skirt hiked up and her shirt undone is being fucked over her desk, her moans funnelled through Cassandra’s headphones. The woman’s hands are clenched on the edge of the desk, her knuckles white. 

 

Cassandra’s hand disappears beneath the waistband of her open jeans. 

 

He should back away. She hasn’t seen him, and if he leaves now he can pretend he never saw this. 

 

Cassandra sighs, head thrown back. 

 

One earbud slips loose.

 

Varric doesn’t know what she hears. Maybe he exhales too loudly, maybe he stepped on a creaky floorboard in his attempt to leave. Perhaps she simply senses another person’s presence. However it happens, she jolts upright in her chair, peers around it with wide, startled eyes.

 

“You!” 

 

Her face goes ghost pale, and then flushes red from her ears downwards. Her earbuds dangle loose.

 

His first thought is to joke, to make light. But this is- he’s never seen her so upset and she’s right to be. 

 

“I didn’t know I swear,” Varric says, both hands held up in a placating gesture he really hopes works. 

 

Cassandra looks at him, and he hates that he’s responsible for the expression on her face. Humiliated and unhappy. 

 

Varric takes a step forward without thinking it through, stops when Cassandra glares at him. 

 

“Do not speak of this,” she hisses. 

 

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Varric says. “Can’t, actually.” 

 

It’s a lame attempt at a joke, and Cassandra doesn’t dignify it with a reaction. 

 

A loud moan interrupts them. 

 

Varric can feel his ears burn. He and Cassandra lock eyes, and try to ignore the computer screen behind her. 

 

Legs spread, the woman on screen shrieks, her partner’s hand dipping down to rub circles against her clit. Her tits bounce with every thrust, eyes rolled back into her head from pleasure. 

 

Varric licks his lips. 

 

Tries  _ really _ hard not to think about fucking Cassandra, or about Cassandra getting herself off. 

 

“I’ll just leave you to it. Sorry, tiger.”

 

He makes it to the door before Cassandra clears her throat. 

 

“Stay.” 

 

Her voice wavers. 

 

“If you like,” she says. 

 

As though he wouldn’t like. As if he hasn’t thought of her, of them. As though he hasn’t guiltily jerked off to the thought of her, wet and eager beneath his mouth.

 

“Yeah.” 

 

“So enthusiastic,” Cassandra deadpans. 

 

Varric crosses the room to her, drags her down into a kiss. Not their first, and he really, really hopes it won’t be their last. 

 

“Sit,” he says, once they’ve stopped and he’s got his breath back. 

 

Cassandra gives him a look, and Varric grins up at her, swats her ass. 

 

“Now, tiger.” 

 

She drops back into her chair. Varric bends his head, nips at the sweet curve of her throat. Breathes. He kisses a path up to her ear, his hands trailing down to the buttons on her shirt. 

 

“Cue up another video,” he says. “Show me what you get off to.” 

 

Cassandra sets up a clip. She has a folder of porn bookmarks, and somehow that’s really hot and really endearing. 

 

Another woman, another desk. 

 

“There’s a theme here, Cassandra,” Varric murmurs. 

 

His hands cup her breasts, thumbs flicking over her nipples. 

 

On screen, the new couple kiss messily. 

 

Cassandra swallows heavily. Varric can feel her pulse speeding up. Her hands flex against the arms of her chair. 

 

“Is this what you think about?” he asks. 

 

Her breasts are silkily soft beneath his hands, as is the smooth skin of her stomach.

  
Cassandra licks her lips. Twists in her chair so she can kiss him sloppily. 

 

“Cassandra,” he says. 

 

“Yes.” 

 

His hand skates down her stomach, stops just before the gaping fly of her jeans. Cassandra shifts, and his fingers lightly trail back up along the sharp jut of her hip. 

 

The buttoned up looking blonde on screen sits on the desk, legs spread as her companion kneels, buries their face against her cunt. 

 

Cassandra exhales heavily through her nose. 

 

She’s flushed, her pulse jumping beneath Varric’s mouth. He rolls a nipple between his fingers, kneads her breast, and slips his other hand beneath the waistband of her jeans. 

 

“Is that what you want, Cassandra? What gets you off?” 

 

His fingers sneak lower down. 

 

“You want to be bent over your desk? Bent over and fucked against it?”

 

She’s wet, and as his fingers slide along her cunt, Varric has to lean his forehead against her shoulder. 

 

“Yes,” she exhales. 

  
Cassandra’s hips rock up.

 

“Keep your eyes on the screen,” Varric says. 

 

He swirls a finger around her clit, and Cassandra’s fingers clench around the arms of her chair. She shakes. Gets wetter. Hotter. The slide of his fingers becomes audible, just faintly.

 

Varric curves one finger in, and the slick smooth heat of her cunt is exquisite. 

 

“You’re so fucking good, tiger.” 

 

She shudders. 

 

“You like that? Being told how good you are, how sweet your cunt is?” 

 

Cassandra’s hand cups the back of his head, and she seals her mouth against his. It’s the filthiest kiss Varric’s ever experienced, and all the while she’s grinding her hips against his hand, fucking herself on his fingers. She moans, nips his lip and holds onto his shoulders with strength enough to bruise and Varric loves it. 

 

“Keep talking, dwarf,” she growls into his ear. 

 

“I want you,” he says. “I want you to fucking scream my name-” 

 

Varric slides another finger into her, and Cassandra groans, low and soft. 

 

“You’re beautiful, sprawled in your chair with your legs spread for me. Rutting against my hand.” 

 

Her thighs tremble, and Varric can feel her cunt spasmodically squeeze his fingers as he thrusts, curls his fingers up to brush her g-spot. Cassandra’s hips roll helplessly. 

 

“Varric,” she sighs out. 

 

Cassandra’s strong hands drag on his shoulders, one arm flung around his neck as he nearly over balances.

 

A loud cry cuts through the air. The blonde in the video is bent over her desk, ass in the air as her partner’s cock plunges in and out of her cunt. Their fucking shakes the desk. 

 

Cassandra’s eyes widen, her mouth falls open as she watches the onscreen couple frantically fucking. 

 

“That’s my girl,” Varric growls against her neck. “Don’t stop.” 

 

Cassandra groans, thrusts her hips down against Varric’s hand. 

 

Her pace gets sloppier, more inelegant and urgent as Varric’s fingers fuck into her harder.  She’s slick and wet and the sound of her is furiously obscene. 

 

Cassandra slips a hand between them, her fingertips circling her clit. 

 

“Fuck yes,” Varric says, “Good girl, come for me.” 

 

She moans, a strangled sound as he sucks another bite mark into her neck. 

 

Her free arm is slung around his neck now, Varric’s sure she’s the only thing holding him upright. Sharp nails dig into his shoulder, and he can feel how close she is, can feel the frenetic fluttering of her body around him. 

 

“ _ Varric! _ ”

 

Cassandra flings herself back in her chair, body taut and shaky, her breath sobbing out as she comes. 

 

Varric sinks to his knees, head on her quaking thigh. He pulls his fingers out, and Cassandra twitches, moans. 

 

He feels like he must’ve run a marathon, heart thundering in his ears. 

 

Cassandra’s fingers sift through his hair. 

 

“Ngh,” he manages to say. 

 

“My feelings exactly,” Cassandra says. 

 

She huffs out a tired laugh. 

 

Varric kisses her thigh. 

 

“Good afternoon,” he says. 

 

“Good afternoon, Varric. Was there something you wanted?” Cassandra says. 

 

She smiles down at him, dazed and happy. Her fingers continue stroking his hair, smooth, even strokes that have him nearly purring like a cat. 

 

He smiles, wrapping an arm around her leg. 

 

“Just dropping in to say hi, tiger.” 

 

“Hi,” Cassandra says fondly.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you ruffles for providing the name <3


	54. Brutal Romance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything ends eventually. This too.

It ends, as he’d expected.

 

One look at her face, livid in the dying sunlight, and he _knows._ This is it for them, for the straggling attempt at a relationship they’d been keeping alive through hope and sheer damn cussedness. But they cannot stop old habits, ingrained long before they’d met. Cassandra is everything he could want. She is strong and brave, stubborn and smart, and _beautiful._ Even now, when she wants to rip his heart out through his nose. She’s everything he could want, and he does. He wants this to work, for their love to be enough in the face of it all.

 

Logic tells him that’s not happening. Cold and clinical, and worst of all _right._ They weren’t going to last, to be one of the great romances of the ages.

 

Neither of them can stop what they are.

 

Varric takes her hand. In the furious light, Cassandra is an avenging spirit, a warrior. Her dark eyes snap and he can _see_ in her the same thing he sees in himself. The refusal to believe, the determination to fight with every last mote of strength to the bitter end.

 

They could make it to the end, could stay together until the fighting and the anger ground them to rubble. They shouldn’t and he can’t do it. Can’t see her unhappy even as he knows he can’t stop making her miserable.

 

“Cassandra,” he hears himself say.

 

She trembles, beneath his hands. Maker, he’d loved that. The first time they’d kissed and she’d shook like a leaf, smiling against his mouth.  

 

“Varric.”

 

She bites his name out, sharp edges and her walls up already.

 

“This isn’t-” he breathes, shudders it out of his mouth. “This is it.”

 

Bald, plain words. True words.

 

Cassandra flinches. Lowers her head.

 

“It is, isn’t it?” she says.

 

Her hand slips from his.

 

“We tried, Seeker. Maker knows we did. And I-”

 

Maker and all the ancestors save him, he doesn’t want to do this. Loves her enough not to ever want her sad. But he makes her unhappy, and he _can’t_ any more.

 

“I’m sorry, Seeker.”

 

Kirkwall spreads out below him, he’s never hated it so much before. It has broken, burned, collapsed, and been built up again. He can’t say the same for himself.

 

She is silent, staring out at the horizon she’d just ridden in from.

 

“As am I, Varric.”

 

Cassandra smiles, a wry shadow of what should be.

 

They stand together on the balcony of his rooms, watching the sun set over the city.

 

It is the end.


	55. Things You Said When You Thought I Was Sleeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an anon on tumblr <3

It wasn’t words, not quite. A sigh, words cut off before he could hear what they might be. Cassandra was unusually restless tonight. She tossed and turned, while Varric kept his eyes firmly shut. It might’ve been cowardly, pretending to sleep rather than talk to her. Varric preferred to think of it as a tactical retreat. He needed time to think about what Bianca had done, and how he felt about it. 

Bad, mostly. Overwhelmingly. 

On their way back from Valammar, the silence was a fifth party member. Varric could feel all the unspoken words fluttering through the air. Every pitying glance raked across his skin. He’d preferred the suspicious ones, the ones that said “he’s her lover, how could he not have known?”

None of those looks had come from Cassandra. 

It was surprising to think that she wasn’t accusing him of collaborating with Bianca, or deriding him for being weak. 

In the quiet of their shared tent, Varric felt her fingers brush his shoulder. 

“I am sorry, Varric.”

The slightest of whispers, he would’ve missed them had his breath not caught in his throat at the touch of her skin against his. 


	56. Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra languishes in the cells of Redcliffe castle, waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In Hushed Whispers is my favourite. Slight spoilers if you haven't played it.

The song sounds like her mother. Cassandra doesn't think much of it, at first. She is a Seeker, impervious to demons and red lyrium alike. It is not the song Varric spoke of, it can't be. It is a trick of her mind, bringing back her mother’s voice now. Cassandra sits in the middle of her cell, feels the cold seeping up through her breeches and the palms of her hands. The cold is real. Her cell is real. The song is not. Her eyes slip shut as she concentrates on what she knows to be true. 

The cold

The damp

Seven months since the world died. 

A guard interrupts her meditation, tossing a bowl of oatmeal into her cell. The bowl clatters against the wet stones, slopping watery oats on the floor. 

Seven months and they still feed her, still clean her cell. Long gone are the days when Alexius would have her dragged to his laboratories. Cassandra languishes in the dungeon. The guards do not speak, not to her or to each other. They are afraid. But not of her. Seven months in the dark on scant rations begin to take their toll. Cassandra coughs wetly, breath rattling and wheezing. She is tired, her body aches from injuries healed wrong. 

The guards should still fear her. 

Cassandra shovels the oatmeal into her mouth. Catches a glimpse of red and gags. 

Her mother sings. 

***

Cassandra forgets. 

The days are hopelessly muddled in her head. Sometimes she doesn't remember things in the right order. One day she spends hours trying to remember her mentor’s name. She takes it out on the walls. 

Her knuckles split and bruise, drip red onto the floor. 

Her blood glows like stained glass. 

_Seeeeker_

Cassandra claps her hands to her ears. 

It is not her mother. 

“Varric?”

Her voice echoes strangely. Cassandra can't remember the last time she spoke aloud. 

_Haven’t you people done enough?_

Cassandra pulls herself up, has to stop and catch her breath. 

“We needed her-”

Cassandra coughs until she can't breathe, until blood spatters her hands. The ground tilts away beneath her feet. She staggers, gropes blindly until her fingers touch slimy rock. Sinking to her knees, Cassandra presses her face against the clammy wall. 

_Cassandra_

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles. 

***

She’s trying to remember the Chant. It is a good day, and Cassandra has made it through most of her favourite verses without forgetting for too long. The song has ebbed, a low him in the back of her mind. It doesn't sound like Varric. Not today. 

“Cassandra!”

She blinks, feels the scrape of lyrium crystals in her joints as she shifts. 

It cannot be the Inquisitor. 

Her sight is tricking her. It must be so.

“I failed you,” she tells the apparition.

Strangely, the Tevinter mage is there. Maker only knows why her mind would include him. 

Her voice echoes strangely, two voices speaking from one mouth. 

“Maker forgive me, I failed you. I failed everyone. The end must truly be upon us if the dead return to life,” Cassandra says. 

“You look wounded, maybe we can help!”

Hope fills the Inquisitor’s voice. Perhaps this is her mind’s way of allowing her to accept that she will die here, in this cell. Never seeing the sky again, nor her friends. 

“Nothing you do can help me now. I will be with the Maker soon,” Cassandra says.

It is true, she realizes. Her body is fading, her thoughts are blurry. There is no time, now. 

The door to her cell swings open. The Inquisitor’s hands grasp her shoulders. 

“You are alive,” Cassandra says. “Then-” 

Her heart cramps. The inquisitor is _alive._ There is hope but it is too late for her, and for Varric. May the Maker protect him, wherever he might be. Cassandra drags herself up, fending off the inquisitor’s attempt to help her. There is _hope_ , and she will stand on her own two feet, clutch at it with both hands. She is not helpless. Not yet.

“We’ve got to find Varric,” the inquisitor says. “Dorian has a plan. We might be able to go back, and stop this.” 

_Varric._

“I have not seen him, Inquisitor.” 

Her voice reverberates. Cassandra thinks she can hear her secret beneath her words. 

The first step out of her cell feels like hope. She can stand, and so it follows she can fight. They will rewrite the past, undo this future. 

When the world is put right, she won’t remember Varric. A year of memories. Of soft words and- 

Cassandra inhales, steadies herself against the wall. It is cold beneath her palm. 

Perhaps in their new future, she and Varric might make new memories. 

“Let us go, Inquisitor.” 

The tremble in her voice is due to the lyrium, nothing more. They will find Varric, and together they will put things _right._

There is always a sacrifice. Always a price for such things. 

****

They find Varric. 

Cassandra wishes they hadn’t. He is still hers, but Maker she would have gladly suffered a thousand times more beneath Alexius’ experiments if it would’ve spared Varric this. His eyes are red, even the sclera. He is so thin, his cheekbones sharp edged beneath his pale skin. Her arms ache, it is a trial to bear her sword and shield and not to instead drop them and hold Varric. She cannot. One touch, and she will wilt. 

Varric jokes with the Inquisitor, but his eyes stray to her. 

In the hallway outside his cell, Varric’s thin fingers touch the torn and filthy remains of her gambeson. 

“You’re alive,” he says. 

His fingers shake. 

“As are you,” Cassandra replies. 

“More or less,” Varric says.

His mouth tips up ruefully, and Cassandra knows. They are both dying. 

“It was not meant to be this way,” Cassandra says. 

Her fingers tangle between Varric’s. They have no time, now. 

There is much to be done before they can rest. 

****

Leliana frightens her. The change in her friend is more deeply marked than any physical sign of what she’s endured. Cassandra keeps her grip on Varric’s hand. Alexius has much to answer for. 

Their time in this world grows shorter. Cassandra can feel it in her labouring breath, in the struggling beat of her heart. She will live long enough. 

“Seeker?” 

Varric looks up at her, as they wait outside Alexius’ chamber. 

“Varric,” she says. “My love.” 

He smiles, and kisses her hand. 

Monsters screech in the distance.

“This is it, isn’t it?” he says. “The end of our story.” 

“It is the beginning,” Cassandra says firmly. 

She loosens her sword in its scabbard. No point in forcing her failing arms to hold it longer than she must. Every second they might buy the inquisitor might tip the scales and allow her to undo this nightmare. 

The howling draws closer. 

“I would not change anything, Varric-” 

“We are, though. We’re changing all of it,” he interrupts. 

He looks up at her, and Cassandra is glad neither of them can cry.

“We will live,” she says. “And I loved you long before that night.” 

Varric’s hands coax her downwards, until their lips meet. It is their last kiss. 

“See you soon,” he murmurs. 

Claws squeal against the stone floor. Cassandra readies her sword. Varric hefts Bianca. 

The future waits for them.


	57. Unlucky

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is the saying "lucky in love unlucky in cards" or "lucky in cards unlucky in love"? Cassandra can't remember and either way she's in trouble.

One day, when Cassandra least expects it, Varric does something incredible. They are not doing anything particularly noteworthy. Simply sitting together at the table in the forge as he painstakingly tries to impress the rules of Wicked Grace on her. It isn't going particularly well- Cassandra strongly suspects that in order to be a good player, she should've started learning in infancy. Varric is patient with her, and although it's unexpected, it isn't what takes her off-guard.

Cassandra lays her cards down, and Varric-

He smiles at her.

"What do you know, Seeker? You win," he says.

Cassandra blinks.

"I do?" she asks.

There is a very girlish sort of lilt to her voice, and to the short laugh when she realizes Varric isn't teasing her.

"I won!" Cassandra crows.

She doesn't clap her hands, but it's a near thing.

Varric's smile spreads, laugh lines crinkle around his eyes.

He is very handsome, Cassandra realizes.

The midday light streams through the windows of the forge, burnishing his hair to a ruddy gold, and settling lovingly along his skin. Particularly the column of his throat, and the strong lines of his collarbones.

"I have had a good teacher," Cassandra says.

"Was that a compliment?" Varric demands.

He clasps a hand to his chest, rather dramatically.

"Be still my heart, don't tell me you've fallen for me," he gasps.

Cassandra glares at him, prays the heat she feels rising on her face isn't showing as a blush.

"It's the chest hair," Varric says, despairingly. "Women just can't resist it."

"Nor can you resist the sound of your own voice," Cassandra says dryly.

Varric sits back in his chair and laughs.

He smiles at her again and Cassandra is nearly blinded by it.

"I hate to disappoint, Seeker, but I'm off the market."

Varric's voice intrudes on her thoughts (most of which are concerned with frantically wondering when she started to like Varric Tethras) and Cassandra comes back to reality with a jerk. It's not dissimilar to the last time she took a step and found nothing but air.

The mysterious Bianca. The one story Varric never tells.

Cassandra wets dry lips, and casts about for something to say.

"Explain again how drakes win that hand?" she asks.

Varric groans good naturedly and launches into an explanation Cassandra doesn't listen to.

Instead, she borrows a phrase from Varric himself.

Well, shit.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spontaneously written for antivanruffles over Skype


	58. Surprise Surprise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra has some unexpected news.

The doctor puts her through some tests. Sitting in the little cubby of a room, Cassandra thinks Varric should be here with her. But there's no way he could- she has not mentioned her concerns in any letter, blindly telling herself there was no use worrying him unduly when she wasn't sure and now… Now she's alone, waiting for her kind faced doctor to come back and tell her whether or not she's managed a miracle. The worst thing is she's not sure what she's hoping for. A baby. Or barrenness. Her doctor comes back, looking remarkably sheepish. 

"Are you hoping for a particular result?" he asks. 

Cassandra lifts her bowed head, and gives him a wry smile. 

"Yes," she says. 

Her doctor creases a slip of paper between his fingers, and wordlessly passes it over. Cassandra's hands aren't quite steady but they both ignore that. Her stomach swoops. 

She is-

Cassandra looks at the paper again, at the black letters she suddenly can't read. 

"I am-"

"You are," her doctor says gently. 

Cassandra stands abruptly, shoves the slip in her pocket. 

"Thank you, you have been kind. I must. I need to-" 

Her hands flutter, trying to express the enormity of her task. The doctor takes one of her hands and pats it. 

"Come back whenever you need," he says.

"I- yes. Thank you. I will."

Cassandra can hear herself babble, can feel the wrongness of her gait as she takes her leave of the doctor and the clinic. It doesn't matter, compared to what she needs to tell Varric. 

"Lady Pentaghast!"

Someone calls her. One of the innumerable pages Vivienne employs at the palace.

"Lady Pentaghast!"

Cassandra blinks. She's in the halls leading up to the wing Vivienne decided would be hers. A moment ago she was in the clinic-

"My lady?" The small page looks up at her, forehead creased with concern. 

"What is it?" Cassandra says. 

She sounds harsher than she intends. 

"You asked to be given the Viscount's letter the moment it arrived, my lady," the page says. 

"I did?"

"Yes my lady," the page says patiently. 

"And?"

"It has arrived, my lady," the page says.

"Oh. Thank you," Cassandra says. 

The page shifts from one foot to the other. 

"My lady?"

"What is it?"

Cassandra's already partway up the stairs, and speaking to the page like that feels absurd. But she's terribly tired suddenly. 

Colour tints the little page's cheeks. 

"My lady the Viscount arrived with his letter."

"He what!?" Cassandra exclaims. 

The little page winces. 

"He arrived this morning miladi." Nervous fingers pleat the edge of the page's tunic. "He said it was meant as a surprise? That you would like the opportunity to scold 'im, and I was not to say anything to miladi."

The page's Orlesian accent becomes stronger the more miserable her face becomes. 

"He bribed you, I expect," Cassandra says. 

The page's cheeks flush a dark red. 

Cassandra fishes in her pockets and deposits several sovereigns in the page's hand. 

"For being a good page," she says.

Cassandra doesn't do anything so rash as race up the stairs. It is just like Varric to show up at exactly the moment when she's not sure if she wants to see him or wishes him back in Kirkwall. 

It does make her news easier to deliver. 

Cassandra's hand hovers over the doorknob to her suite. 

(we can't have you in the lesser quarters my dear. Think of the political significance! And really you upset the servants when you do that.)

Annoyed with her own hesitation, Cassandra flings the door open. 

Varric does a good impression of a man who had not just jumped. 

"Fancy seeing you here, Seeker," he drawls. 

"In my own chambers," Cassandra says. "Truly an odd circumstance."

Varric laughs, his eyes crinkle. 

Tears prick at Cassandra's eyes. 

He is so dear to her. So unbelievably dear. And yet she doesn't know how to tell him, how he might react-

"Hey now, Seeker," Varric says. 

His smile flags. Concern creases his face. He's at her side before the tears begin to stream down her cheeks. It is all too much- the stress of being the sole force fighting for the Seekers, maintaining her position on the Council, Varric being so far away, and then the strain of the last few hours, waiting alone in the doctor's office. Guiltily praying. 

Cassandra sags down onto the low sofa. 

"I hate crying," she says thickly. 

Varric swipes at her face with a small sheet doing double duty as a handkerchief. 

"This is absurdly huge," Cassandra mumbles. 

Varric leers at her. 

"Do not," Cassandra says. Giggles a bit wetly. 

"That's better, Cassandra," Varric says. 

His hands smooth the hair from her face. Gentle and callused and cool. Cassandra presses her cheek against his palm.They sit there, Cassandra curled up against Varric's bulk, the familiar warmth of him soothing and perfect. Varric strokes her hair and Cassandra nearly falls asleep with her face tucked against his shoulder and her legs slung over his lap. 

She has to tell him. 

Her stomach swoops again. Her heart beats frantically against her ribs, threatens to choke her. 

With effort, Cassandra sits upright, untangling herself from Varric. Pretending it doesn't make her ache to do so. 

There is only one way she knows how to be, one thing she is- blunt. 

Varric looks at her with concern. 

"I'm pregnant," Cassandra says. 

The words fall, leaden, into the sudden shocked silence. 

Varric's face shutters. Between one ragged breath and the next, his expression closes off. Becomes something cold and remote, despite the wry quirk of the lips he's passing off as a smile. 

"Congratulations to you and…" he trails off. Shrugs. "Whoever."

Fury shocks Cassandra out of her unhappiness. 

For a few moments all she can do is sputter. 

"Whoever" she snarls. "Do you think me so faithless?"

"I think you're a human and I'm a dwarf," Varric says tiredly. "We knew the odds, remember?"

Cassandra flushes. 

"We beat them," she bites out. There's more, more she wants to tell him, to scream at him for thinking even for a second that she might've been unfaithful. All the angry words die on her tongue. Varric looks up at her, the way some men look upon a dragon. 

A little in awe, and very much afraid. 

On any other day she'd tease him about the look on his face. About his failure to produce a smartass quip. On any other day she wouldn't be so scared. 

"Oh."

Varric's mouth works, but no further words come out. 

His hand blindly gropes for hers. 

"You're- and you're sure. You're really sure?" Varric's strong voice quavers. 

"I am," Cassandra says. 

Varric blinks. 

"I- I don't know if I should be happy or-" he stops, lets go of her hand. 

"Are you going to keep it?" he asks roughly. 

Cassandra presses a protective hand over her abdomen. Nods. 

"Of course. Of course I am going to keep it," she says. "If you do not wish to be. Involved. You do not need to be."

"I don't need to be- Maker's ass, Cassandra," Varric turns a baleful, glimmering gaze on her. 

Tears stream down his face. Varric wipes at them ineffectually with the heel of his palm. Wordlessly, Cassandra passes him his handkerchief. 

"I hate crying," Varric says through the handkerchief. "I get all blotchy, clash with my tunic."

Cassandra smiles. 

Varric tilts his head up, and grins weakly. 

"Sorry Seeker," he says. "Do over?"

Cassandra rolls her eyes at him. Fondly. 

Varric pats the seat beside him. 

"Fine," Cassandra says as she sinks down onto the sofa. 

Immediately, Varric tugs her close, twists and leans back so they're both sprawled out on the sofa. Cassandra squirms until she's comfortable against his chest, their limbs tangling together. Varric's hand cradles the back of her head. 

"Varric?" she says. 

He rumbles an interrogative "mm?"

Propping herself up on one arm, Cassandra looks down on his face. Varric looks up at her, the way a man looks at an oasis in the desert. 

"I love you," she says. 

"I love you too, Seeker."

He smiles, one broad hand skimming down her side. Cassandra stills it when he reaches her abdomen. 

"You're going to be a father," she says. Smiles. 

"Thank the maker," Varric mumbles. 

He holds her close, Cassandra's head pillowed on his chest while tears soak into her hair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written on Skype for Satine86 <3


	59. Midnight on the Bridge

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come alone. 
> 
> Varric receives a mysterious message. From a prompt for an anon on tumblr.

Whoever sent the note knew how to get a man’s attention.

_Midnight on the bridge. Come alone._

No man with an ounce of curiosity could resist something like that. Particularly when it had been shoved under my office’s door and no one could remember seeing anyone do so. Which was how I found myself on the bridge at 11:45, waiting. Of course, in addition to my overabundant curiosity, I had some damn common sense. Bianca sat in her holster, a heavy, comforting weight at my side. There are few months in Kirkwall that have pleasant weather, and this wasn’t one of them. It was cold enough that I considered buttoning up my shirt. Only briefly, and then the moment of insanity passed. I shoved my hands into my pockets, They automatically sought out the cigarettes that weren’t there. Habits were hard to break and this one was breaking me. I settled for stroking my thumb against my lighter instead, flicking the lid open and closed.

_Click. Click. Click._

The Chantry’s bells tolled midnight, the rich tones rolling through the city like fog. Meanwhile fog rolled through the city like the echo of bells. The night was suitably mysterious. Perhaps my anonymous friend had consulted the weather forecast before sending the note. The atmosphere would’ve been much less ominous without the smear of smog that had descended over the city.

_Click. Click. Click._

I had long since stopped fidgeting with my lighter, but still sent my hand a confused look.

The footsteps broke the eerie quiet, echoing strangely in the fog. Streetlights illuminated ghostly figures waltzing through gauzy air, and for the first time I felt fear slip icily along my spine.

I slid my palm around Bianca’s grip. The footsteps and whatever came attached to them drew closer. A tall dark shape began to materialize out of the haze.

I let go of Bianca.

“Varric.”

I turned, away from the figure with the unforgettable voice. If I remembered correctly, she had an unforgettable everything else, too. She was the kind of woman who lingers, long after you should’ve forgotten her. The kind of woman who could only be called “bad news”. She drew up next to me, forearms braced against the railing. There was an unlit cigarette tucked behind her ear. We stood in silence, watching the fog swell, and the indistinct shadows wavering in the aqueduct below us.

I clicked my lighter, felt the eye and sword emblem dig into the heel of my palm. It was cool in my hand, solid.

“Seeker,” I said. “Isn’t it past your bedtime?”


	60. You Did WHAT

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric does something. For someone on tumblr whose ask was unfortunately eaten.

“No, seriously,” Hawke says. “You did _what!?_ ”

She’s too big for his bed but that doesn’t mean anything- Varric has long since found that Hawke’s reflexes aren’t the only cat-like thing about her. She sheds, for one thing. She also has a bad habit of being right in his damn way.

“Althea Louise Hawke,” Varric says.

“The third,” Hawke says. 

“The third what?”

“Third of my name, Champion of Kirkwall, world renowned lover, and rescuer of small animals.”

“Hawke, what the hell.” 

“You used my full name. I mistook you for an ill informed herald,” Hawke replies. “Because you are definitely not my friend Varric-” 

“Hawke-”

“Bosom companion of my soul, paragon of manliness, man’s man, man about town-”

“ _Hawke!_ ”

“Because my favourite dwarf isn’t boneheaded enough to have sex with the scariest woman he can find-” Hawke pauses, for emphasis. 

She loves drama, the little shit. Varric levels her an unimpressed glare, which she ignores with an arch look of her own. Varric drops his head into his hands. 

“Or oaf enough to run back to Kirkwall afterwards with nary so much as a by your leave!” Hawke says triumphantly. “So you are definitely not Varric Tethras.” 

“Who’s been teaching you archaic expressions?” Varric asks, voice muffled. 

“I’ve been helping Fenris with his reading,” Hawke says primly. “The library’s a bit outdated. And that’s besides the point.” 

She gestures, presumably towards wherever her point is. 

“Is the point that I’m an idiot? Because I knew that already,” Varric says. 

“She’s going to kill you,” Hawke says. “I’ll miss you, Varric.” 

Varric traces the delicate rim of his glass with a fingertip. A blunt, calloused, Dwarven finger, tainted by all the blood red lyrium spilled. 

“Don’t make that face,” Hawke says. “It’ll stick that way and then your Seeker will never forgive you.” 

“Because I’ll be so grotesque?” Varric asks. 

“Because you’ll be grotesque _and_ an idiot,” Hawke corrects. 

The decanter tips its contents into Varric’s glass. 

“Stop that.”

“I felt bad for it, it missed its friends.” 

Varric shoots a look at Hawke, somewhat spoiled by her being upside down. The last two fingers of what had been a very fine brandy glow in his glass, tinted blue-ish green by Hawke’s spell. 

“Magic messes with the flavour, Hawke,” Varric grumps. 

“Drink it quick then!” 

“You’re trying to get me drunk. It won’t work.” 

“Thwarted again!”

Hawke flops onto her stomach, her chin resting on the foot of his bed. It makes Varric feel light headed to watch her. No one should be that active after drinking what Hawke has. 

“Stop that, you’re making me sea sick,” Varric says. 

“You’re on land. You can’t get sea sick,” Hawke points out. 

Varric sighs, and tries not to look at her. It’s a mistake, since his eyes find the empty decanter. And its fellows, also emptied. Each of which had contained liquor the exact hue of Cassandra’s eyes. They’d caught the firelight in his room, and smouldered. Rich brown eyes framed by long, dark lashes. He’d poured her a brandy, watched her tongue sweep an errant drop from her lips, and forgotten himself. 

In the morning, Cassandra cuddled into his side while she slept. She was the only warmth in his room, in the whole damn keep. Dawn fumbled along the mountains, and even it was cold and remote. 

He’d left her there, still sleeping. Just picked up his bag and his duster, slung Bianca over his shoulder, and slipped away. 

“I’m an asshole,” Varric says. Mostly to the decanters.

“Usually not this much of an asshole,” Hawke says. 

Varric slumps further into his chair. 

“I couldn’t do it. After everything, I thought- doesn’t matter. Doesn’t at all.” 

His glass floats up to eye level and wiggles. 

“You can tell me,” Hawke says. “It matters to me. And Cassandra.”

His fire is fuelled by a thousand failed letters to the Seeker, but saying out loud feels melodramatic, so Varric abstains. Instead he plucks his glass from mid air and drains it. 

“I love her,” he says. 

Varric’s just as surprised as Hawke to hear that. 

“So you fucked her and ran away to mope in Kirkwall?” Hawke sighs. “You’re a fucking asshole. She’s never going to speak to you again.” 

“Better that way,” Varric says. “Her hating me is normal, is-”

“Less scary than loving her? Better than being with her?”

“Yeah.”


	61. How Long Have You Been Standing There?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Long enough.
> 
> For a prompt given by sikacasondrapintagast on tumblr.

Cassandra stands in the doorway, mouth agape. Her eyes are wide, her hands hang loose at her sides. She blinks once. Twice. Closes her mouth. Opens it once more.

Nothing comes out.

Varric shoves the box back in his pocket, the letter haphazardly tossed onto the desk. Carefully careless.

“Long enough,” Cassandra manages. The whites of her eyes are visible all the way around. “Varric-”

She's got the look of a green soldier before their first battle. Which, Varric supposes, is strange. Surely she must have seen worse things than a man under pressure.

The box in Varric’s coat pocket weighs him down, a bloody reminder of that strain.

They stare at each other, the massive expanse of his room between them, impassable in its vastness.

Cassandra moves forward, like a badly jointed puppet.

“Pretend you never saw this,” Varric says.

His voice has all the strength of an echo.

“I can't,” Cassandra says. Then, in a stronger voice, “I will not.”

She takes one step into his room, and fills it. There isn't a corner free from her scent, the warmth of her body, the determined clarity of her gaze.

It is _overwhelming_.

“I will not, Varric.”

Cassandra stands tall, an immovable object in the midst of the frantic whirl of Varric’s life. Strength and control, and at his disposal if he could reach out for her.

“You should,” Varric says. “I have it under control.”

His fingers stroke the box. Worrying at it is already a habit, though its presence is not a comforting one. Someone has suffered for this - for him. He cannot strike that thought from his mind.

“Let me help,” Cassandra pleads, into the little air there is left.

“It's nobody’s business but mine, Seeker,” Varric says.

In his pocket the box, with its heavy familiar signet ring and gruesome single bearer, _burns_ against his skin. At the corner of his vision, the letter flickers in the draught, a reminder of what he must do to ensure that no other… _parts_ … were sent.

“If you believe that,” Cassandra says hotly, “you are not the man I thought you were.”

“Sticks and stones, Seeker.”

Varric gives her his back. He can not - will not let her bear any more of his failings.

Cassandra, when she does move, doesn't approach him.

“Do not be the man _they_ think you are,” she says softly. “For your sake.”

She shuts the door behind her, so gently that Varric almost doesn't hear the latch engage.


	62. In Awe The First Time You Realize It v.1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For sikacasondrapintagast on tumblr, who asked for 31. In Awe, The First Time You Realize it on the "Say You Love Me" meme.

**VARRIC**

“Yes, yes,” Cassandra says. Her voice is rich with amusement and fondness. “You hate the Deep Roads, and caves, and the outdoors.” 

She’s laughing at him, her eyes alight. Cassandra’s lips curl up at the corners, the way they do when she’s trying not to smile. Varric supposes no one’s ever told her it’s pointless to hide it- she smiles with her whole face. Hell, her whole body.

Cassandra glances his way, her eyes shadowed by the fringe of her long, kohl black eyelashes. 

Maker, he loves her.

Varric trips over a rock. His arms windmill as he tries to regain his balance. It’s a near thing. Cassandra laughs, except it’s more of a giggle, and is surprisingly cute. 

Maker. He _loves her._ He thinks she’s _cute._

_Cassandra Pentaghast._

Shit.

 

**CASSANDRA**

“I knew you missed me,” Varric says. He sounds extremely satisfied with this declaration. 

“It. I said _it_ ,” Cassandra retorts, in a repressing tone.

Not that Varric would notice. He is irrepressible. It is charming, Cassandra thinks, looking at him fondly. Their little group is together again, and there is something in the way Varric gestures, his hands describing some movement Blackwall seems to understand that has something or the other to do with jousting. 

Varric glances back, and smiles. 

Cassandra grins, her whole body warm. The sun shines brighter, and Cassandra wonders how it is that the day which began so grey has become so cheerful. 

Varric turns back to his conversation with Blackwall. 

Cassandra smiles at his back. 

Maker, she does love him.

Oh. 

Oh no. 

She loves Varric. _Varric._


	63. In Awe The First Time You Realize It v.2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second version of sikacasondrapintagast's prompt!

Cassandra is _furious_. Beyond furious, if there’s a word for that. She glows with anger. They’re trudging through the Fallow Mire, which is enough to justify any bad mood, in Varric’s opinion. Bloody, bruised, and soaked to the bone, too. While that’s pretty shitty, Varric’s not so sure it really merits Cassandra’s seething rage. Being separated from the Inquisitor and Vivienne might justify her anger, but Tyr is an adult, and Vivienne is scarier than most things in the Mire. Varric meanwhile, has aches and pains in places he doesn’t care to think about, and one persistent throbbing soreness along his shoulder that concerns him more. 

“Shortstuff will be fine,” Varric says.

All he gets for his trouble is a glare from Cassandra and a mouthful of brackish water. 

“Is it the nickname?”

Cassandra sloshes through the sludgy water in silence. 

“Tiny was taken,” Varric says, “Should’ve thought of it first but what can you do?”

He shrugs. Water trickles down his neck. 

“I’m open to suggestions,” Varric tells Cassandra’s back. 

He’s pretty sure she grunts. That or it’s another damn corpse shambling around. Maker, he hopes it isn’t more undead. Whatever the hell happened to his shoulder _hurts_.

“Enough of your inane comments, Varric!” she snaps. 

“That’s a mouthful, Seeker,” Varric says. “Nicknames have to be short and sweet. Like yours truly.” 

He winks. 

Lightning streaks through the sky, bleaching Cassandra into a statue of stark black and white fury. Her face contorts, caught between her anger and some emotion Varric can’t identify. Probably more anger.

“Do you always have to _mock?_ ” she cries out. “Can you not-” 

“I could, but it wouldn’t fucking help,” Varric says. 

Cassandra glares at him.

“You could have _died_ , Varric!”

She looks livid. 

“This place is a _shitshow_ ,” Varric yells. “I could’ve died back there but I didn’t, and this might surprise you, Seeker, but it’s hard enough to just shrug that off without you tearing me a new asshole because you don’t _appreciate_ how I cope!”

“Varric-” 

“Why the hell do you care _now?_ ” Varric snarls. 

“Because I love you!” Cassandra spits out.

Her eyes go wide. Her mouth hangs lax in shock. 

“I love you?” she says again, to herself. 

Varric blinks water out of his eyes. It’s possible the thunder deafened him. Or the blood loss is making him hallucinate. What isn’t possible is that _Cassandra Pentaghast_ thinks she loves him.

He isn’t going to think about the second time she said it, her voice coloured by awe.

Cassandra’s face closes into an expressionless mask. 

“Forget I said anything,” she bites out. 

With that, she turns and clambers onto solid ground. Varric gapes at her back. 

Thunder roars through the sky.

Varric moves towards the spit of land with all the grace of the recently deceased. 

She loves him?

Cassandra sticks her hand out. 

Wordlessly, Varric grasps it, and lets her pull him the rest of the way up the muddy slope. Slime squelches beneath her feet. 

“Oof!”

Cassandra yanks him up too quickly, and their momentum topples her into an oozing puddle. 

Varric pushes himself up. Cassandra lies sprawled beneath him, covered from head to toe in mud and filth, and glaring at him. 

“I guess I swept you off your feet, Seeker,” Varric says. 

Her mouth twitches into a smile. 

Varric grins. 

“You are _crushing_ me, dwarf,” Cassandra says, shoving at his chest. Her voice holds muted laughter. 

Varric’s heart trips over itself. 

_Oh._

“Did you mean it?” he asks. 

Cassandra looks up at him, the stubborn jut of her chin belying the soft look in her eyes. 

“Did I mean what?” she says.

Rain pours down on them, and Varric knows they should move. He hates the rain. And mud. Thunderstorms too. But not if Cassandra’s with him. 

“Is your middle name really Calogera?” he asks. 

Cassandra’s mouth becomes a thin line. Her eyebrows draw down into a v over her nose.

“Deflecting,” Varric says. “Bad habit.” 

“I meant it,” Cassandra says. “And _one_ of my middle names is Calogera.” 

“One? You have more?” Varric asks.

“Yes, and you are still very heavy,” Cassandra says. 

Her hands are cold against his shoulders, the leather of her gloves soaked beyond hope. 

“I love you too,” Varric says, heaving himself up onto his haunches.


	64. Say It Loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an anon on tumblr who asked for Varric and Cassandra, and for 15.(Say You Love Me) Loud so Everyone Can Hear.

She is _late_. The one time it is unforgivable to be late, and Cassandra finds herself racing through the halls of Skyhold, hoping she isn’t _too_ -

“Forgive me,” she calls back. 

A noble adjusts her mask and tuts, collecting a crowd of sympathetic cronies. Doubtless they are all cooing over her and despairing over “that vulgar Pentaghast woman”. Cassandra would feel bad, if she could care at all about what those hangers-on think of her. Josephine will smooth things over, and perhaps call upon Cassandra to make an apology, which will be worth it if she isn’t _late_.

Cassandra bursts through the Great Hall’s doors, and takes the stairs in twos and threes. She stumbles as she lands, feet skidding in the dirt at the foot of the stairs. 

“Cassandra?”

Cullen steadies her, his hand on her elbow.

“The Inquisitor-” Cassandra gasps out. 

Her heart seems intent on beating its way out through her chest via her lungs.

Cullen looks at her, and tilts his head rather like a confused mabari. 

“They’ve just passed through the outer gates,” he says. “But-” 

Cassandra tears past him.

“ _No!”_

The portcullis is shut, the great outer gates closed. Cassandra stares at the unforgiving wood and metal. Frustrated tears burn her eyes like acid. 

The stairs. There might still be time, if they are on the bridge-

Climbing the stairs up to the battlements takes at least three ages. Cassandra stumbles twice, and tears the knee out of her breeches. The guards gawk, as she brushes past them. 

“My lady!” One guard blurts out. 

Cassandra throws herself up onto the ledge formed by the massive bricks of the outer wall. The Inquisitor and his party are still on the bridge. Relief sweeps through Cassandra’s body. She’s not too late. Embarrassing though it is to do this in front of the entire keep, it is her own fault.

“VARRIC!” Cassandra shouts. 

The guards murmur behind her. Cassandra can feel her ears heating up, the blush staining her cheeks and the bridge of her nose.

Down on the bridge, the Inquisitor’s party stumbles to a halt. Even the supply cart jerks to a standstill, its driver twisting in their seat to look up at her. 

“Seeker?” Varric calls up. 

His voice is faint, nearly obliterated by the wind rushing around the keep. 

Cassandra falters. Perhaps she could’ve waited, could’ve let him go off with the Inquisitor and told him upon his return. 

“What are you doing up there?” Varric yells. 

He hates heights, Cassandra remembers. Looking up at her must be making him feel queasy. 

She sympathises. 

The guards are quiet behind her, but for the rustling of their leather armour. 

All the eyes of Skyhold are upon her. 

Varric is waiting for her. 

Cassandra takes a deep, steadying breath.

“I love you, too!” she bellows.

Someone gasps. 

Varric stands frozen on the bridge. The Inquisitor shoves him, and Varric bursts into motion. He bolts towards the keep’s gate. 

Cassandra drops back down onto the walkway. The guards are very studiously guarding nothing at all. She looks past them, towards Cullen’s office. Perhaps he will let her hide there, until the furor over her confession has abated. 

“My lady!” 

One of the guards grabs her shoulder, and Cassandra turns with a sharp remark on her tongue. 

“My lady, there’s a _door_ ,” the guard says in a hurry. “Between the bridge and the keep!” 

Oh. 

Oh, Maker. 

Cassandra feels foolish. The _door_. 

The door through which she might’ve reached Varric and not shouted her confession to the entire castle. 

Footsteps pound up the stairs. 

The door which Varric has undoubtedly used. 

Cassandra launches herself down the staircase. There’s a flash of coppery hair and red tunic at the middle landing. 

Leaping down the last three steps, Cassandra crashes into Varric. His hands grab at her waist, steadying her. Always steadying her. 

“I thought-” he says.

“I couldn’t,” Cassandra says, panting. “You couldn’t leave and not _know_ -”

“I thought you didn’t-” Varric manages. His hands haven’t left her waist. 

“When you said...did you mean it?” Cassandra asks. 

Varric grins up at her, that crooked smug smile she _adores_. 

“I love you,” he says. 

“Kiss!” 

The trio of guards duck out of range of Cassandra’s glare. Varric laughs.

“You told the whole castle,” Varric remarks. 

Cassandra blushes deeper. It’s possible all the blood in her body now resides in her ears and cheeks. 

“I was running late,” she says primly. 


	65. Sharing is Caring

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Cassandra share a bed in the slimiest castle Crestwood has to offer.

There's not enough space or time for them to set up proper quarters after they clear the bandits out- every room needs to be checked, and that eats up most of the day. Then, the only liveable spaces need to be allotted to the scouts and soldiers that followed them. So it happens that Cassandra and Varric get shoved into a glorified closet of a room

"Gonna need a shoehorn to get us outta here," Varric drawls.

He's being very flippant about the whole thing, which Cassandra finds relaxing. If he'd griped and complained, she would've simply killed him and shoved him in the actual closet.

It has been a long day, and Crestwood is not the most soothing destination.

The rift in the lake buzzes and crackles. Cassandra can feel it in the air, like static before a storm or a mage's lightning strike.

Stripping out of her armour and gambeson, Cassandra sits heavily on the bed to yank her boots off.

"Seeker?"

"Varric."

He looks at her with something dangerously close to consternation.

Cassandra peels off her outer shirt, which hasn't felt properly dry since they arrived, and takes off her belt. She's tired, and this is an actual bed, not a cot or a bedroll. It doesn't matter that she has to share it with Varric. She might actually welcome the company- a bed always warms up faster with another person in it. Now isn't the time to fuss or argue. Morning dawns sooner than one thinks, and Cassandra intends to make the most of a full night in a proper bed.

With Varric

She waves her hand, as if to dissipate that thought.

"Is there a problem, Varric?" she says, tiredly.

"Depends on if you hog the blankets, Seeker,” Varric says.

Cassandra huffs out a soft laugh, and burrows beneath the sheets.

"Go to sleep, dwarf," she says. Not without fondness. 

She is terribly fond of him.

The bed dips beneath his weight. Cassandra's sleepily glad to be proven right- Varric is a small fire. warm and comforting. He settles in, after a bit of fidgeting, and Cassandra drifts away with the burn of him at her back.

****

Cassandra opens one bleary eye, and peers with quiet bemusement at Varric.

He _snores._

Upon further consideration, it's more of a snuffle interrupted by the occasional whistle. Probably due to his broken nose.

It's unfair of her but since Varric did wake her up, Cassandra feels entirely justified in wondering why he never had his nose fixed. It's not out of the realm of possibility that he would've left the break to emphasize his rakish good looks.

His nose whistles again. 

Cassandra bites her lip to keep from laughing. It’s not as though she hasn't seen Varric sleep, or heard him snore. They did make the trip to Haven together from Kirkwall.

Perhaps it is the inherent intimacy in sharing a bed.

Cassandra snuggles further beneath the blankets, and studies Varric's sleeping face.

"mmmfmg"

Varric snorts and wakes up with a start. He blinks blearily at her, eyes soft. 

"Morning" he rumbles, voice low and rough

"You snore," Cassandra tells him. 

Varric's eyes flutter shut again, he's clearly on his way back to sleep. 

"s'ry" he mumbles. 

One arm snakes around her waist, and Cassandra tumbles forward with a soft yelp. Her hand falls naturally against his chest. Varric's other hand pats her shoulder.

Cassandra squirms, settles more comfortably against Varric's side. She should be shocked, should liberate herself from his grasp. _Varric Tethras_ is cuddling her like she’s a child's stuffed toy.

It is nice to be held, and Varric is so warm. Within minutes Cassandra can feel his even breathing drawing her back down into sleep.

Outside, rain patters against the castle's shutters, and the lake grumbles irritatedly. Varric nuzzles sleepily against her hair. She'll get up soon, Cassandra tells herself. In a few minutes.

****

Varric drifts up into wakefulness, feeling more rested than he really has a right to be. It's still raining out because of course it is. Why wouldn't it be? The ominous rumble of the lake promises his day isn't going to be any drier than the day before. Or the day before that.

Midway through grumbling about the perfidy of Crestwood’s weather, Varric realises something.

There's a weight on his chest, and a warmth that only comes from another body curled up against him.

The Seeker.

_Cassandra._

Varric's heart lurches in his chest. Cassandra wrinkles her nose. Her eyelashes tickle his shoulder. She stays asleep, and Varric lets out a relieved sigh. One of her legs is thrown over both of his, and one hand is curled up on his chest, by her mouth. His arm is _definitely_ asleep, and makes that known very insistently. Varric doesn't move. He should.

Cassandra Pentaghast is _cuddling_ him.

She's warm, and not soft exactly- Varric can feel how heavy her body is, how muscular. It's pressed up against him, after all. There's something about the weight that is comforting rather than alarming. He should move. Should shuffle out from beneath her-

Maker. 

His ever active imagination quickly provides him with an image of himself beneath Cassandra in a completely different context.

Because this is his life and of course he can't catch a break, Cassandra picks that moment to wake up.

It's like something out of his shitty romance serial. Worse, out of someone else's shitty romance serial. She sighs, and blinks a few times before looking up at him with confused, embarrassed eyes. His hand is still on her waist. How had he not noticed?

"You snore," Cassandra says, then winces.

Varric snorts. "Good morning to you too, Seeker."

This isn't the weirdest wake up he's ever had- that definitely has to go to that one time after Hawke's nameday. With the nugs. Varric grimaces at the memory of all those creepy little feet.

Cassandra rolls her eyes at him. Her hair's sticking up in awkward spikes, and there's a smudge beneath her eyes from yesterday's makeup.

She's pretty.

There are freckles next to her mouth, a small constellation that brings a little whimsy to her features.

Cassandra’s lips part ever so slightly. Her fingers tense where they rest over his heart. Varric drags his focus away from her mouth. He's never noticed how long her eyelashes were, or the way her eyes glow. Maybe looking at her eyes was a bad idea. His gaze floats back down to her mouth. 

Definitely a bad idea.

Cassandra leans in.

Varric splays his hand against her back. 

“Varric,” she says. 

The way her lips shape his name is beyond enticing. 

“Cassandra,” he murmurs. 

They breathe in unison, a hairsbreadth from each other. 

Varric’s not sure who moved first, only that they do. That Cassandra’s lips are soft. He should've kissed her a long time ago. 

****

Varric is kissing her. Or rather, she is kissing Varric. They are kissing each other. 

There is kissing. Happening. To _her_.

It's only fun until Cassandra realizes who she's kissing, where they are, and what her breath must smell like. Had she brushed her teeth before falling into bed?

She freezes. Varric's hand is on the small of her back, resting there with a proprietary sort of air. Her own hand is pressed against his chest. 

She can feel the drum of his heartbeat.

The chest hair is every bit as magnificent as she'd thought-

Not that she'd ever-

Not that she wouldn't _necessarily_ -

Maker it is too early for this sort of thing.

Embarrassment heats her face. 

"I do not know why I-" Cassandra starts. Frowns. 

"Why you kissed me," Varric supplies helpfully. His hand is still on her back. 

"Yes, that," Cassandra says. Frowns more. 

Varric's expression has gone strangely flat. Determinedly neutral.

This is going rapidly awry. 

Cassandra studies Varric's face. His broken nose, his scars, the redness of broken capillary vessels on his cheeks. His freckles, and the stubble that is dangerously close to being a beard. The lines at the corners of his mouth and the crows feet at the edges of his eyes. 

"I wanted to," Cassandra says.

"What's that, Seeker?" Varric asks. 

His fingers twitch against her back, like he can't decide whether to move them or not.

"I _wanted_ to kiss you," Cassandra says. 

Varric gawks up at her. 

" _You_ wanted to kiss _me_?" he echoes. "Not your usual reaction to me." 

Cassandra laughs. 

"Not always," she says. "Not all my feelings are about punching people, Varric."

"Good for me," Varric says.

Cassandra rolls her eyes.

"Well?" she asks.

Varric's hand has snuck beneath the edge of her tunic. The feel of his fingers tentatively touching her bare skin is distracting. He meets her gaze, but his mind is clearly elsewhere. He blinks at her, and smiles a truly disarming smile. 

"Did you want to kiss me?" Cassandra asks, feeling another frown crease her brow. 

Varric's silent, and that's only somewhat disconcerting.

"I did," he says finally. "I always did."

"Oh," Cassandra says. 

"Yeah," Varric agrees. 

Cassandra smiles down at him, and leans in to kiss him again. 

"Shall we make up for lost time?" she asks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For antivanruffles. Thank you for helping me with this one, and prompting it!


	66. Are You Leaving Already?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's their party and Cassandra will leave if she wants to. 
> 
> Detective Pentaghast AU

“Party’s just getting started Detective,” Varric says, sidling up to her. “Don’t tell me you’re leaving already?”

Cassandra fixes him with a flat look.

“I wasn’t planning on it,” she says. 

The barest hint of a smile hides in the corners of her mouth, and there is what Varric could only describe as a twinkle in her eyes. Combined with the blush from the heat of the party, Cassandra looks terribly pretty. 

Varric barks out a laugh. 

Cassandra steps onto the porch, and Varric follows. 

“That was _almost_ a joke! I’m rubbing off on you!” he says. His breath turns into a cloud of white mist in the frigid air.

Cassandra rolls her eyes. 

“I had a sense of humour before I met you,” she says. “Difficult as it may be for you to believe.”

Varric huffs, and darts a look up at Cassandra’s profile. Her attempt to leave the party- _their_ party- early left him feeling bruised. They’d solved the case, and sewn it up so tightly Doc Cosima wouldn’t see the outside of a jail cell for eight lifetimes. If anyone deserves a party and the chance to unwind, it’s him and Cassandra. Besides, it wouldn’t be the same without her there to sip her wine and send him disapproving looks. 

Wracking his brain for a suitable joke, Varric wonders how it happened that he wants her to stay and doesn’t want her to know that he wants her to stay. 

“Is it the crowd? I can boot those freeloaders out, if you want,” Varric says. 

“It is your party, Varric,” Cassandra replies. “They are your friends and I am-”

She stops, nervous fingers plucking at her gloves. The night is still and cold, crisp after that evening’s snowfall. 

“If you try and say we aren’t friends, Detective…” Varric warns. 

Cassandra exhales heavily. 

“Are we friends?” she asks. 

Her face is turned away from him, staring out over the snow shrouded city.

“Damn right we are,” Varric says into the echoing silence.

Cassandra’s shoulders stiffen. 

Varric wonders if he’s said the wrong thing. Of course they’re friends. Despite their earlier animosity, he trusts Cassandra. She’s stubborn and rash, with a quick temper, and a bad habit of stabbing books, but she’s loyal and brave to a fault. She’s passionate, beautiful, and funny. 

He doesn’t want to just be her friend, Varric realizes. Not that he’s going to turn up his nose at it. 

“If I wanted-” Cassandra’s voice startles him. 

She turns to face him, the hat Merrill knit her jammed down over her ears. Her cheeks and nose are rosy from the chilly air, now, and her dark eyes are bright, reflecting the streetlight’s glow. She steps closer. Varric wants to kiss her. Every bit of her, from the tip of her nose to her bony ankles. 

Varric steps closer. 

“What do you want, Cassandra?” he asks in a husky voice. 

Cassandra’s gaze is fixed on his, her eyes wistful though her face expresses none of it. She inhales, and Varric’s own breath catches. 

“Cassandra,” Varric says. 

Her name on his lips sends a wave of longing through Varric’s veins. Cassandra leans towards him, her eyes dropping to his mouth. The night fades away, and Varric can almost forget that it’s cold as balls out, and he has a houseful of people, and that Cassandra had tried to leave without a word. 

“Varric!” Aveline calls out. 

She sticks her head out the door, a frown creasing her forehead. 

“Marian ordered a strippergram,” she says bluntly. “Carver locked himself in the upstairs bathroom, and Isabela is debauching the D.A., and I can’t find Anders and Fenris. _Help.”_

“That is my cue,” Cassandra says with a short laugh. “Thank you, Varric. Good luck, Aveline.” 

“Detective,” Aveline says, frowning harder. 

“See ya, Detective,” Varric says. 

Cassandra descends the steps, and looks back only once, before she turns the corner and disappears into the night. 

“Varric,” Aveline says. “Did I-”

“You said something about a strippergram?” Varric asks, stepping back into the house. 

Aveline sighs with exasperation. 

Together, they head back into what’s shaping up to be Kirkwall’s most disastrous house party.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For satine86, sorry I forgot about this for like, a whole month...
> 
> <3


	67. 19. Having a Wet Dream and Calling the Other's Name During It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For an anon who prompted it on tumblr!

She wakes up with his name on her lips and an ache between her legs that she deals with by going out and hitting a training dummy until it’s splinters. It is only that they’ve been fighting, Cassandra rationalizes. Her sword thwacks into the training dummy and hews out an enormous splinter.

She and Varric will resume their usual strained companionship, and her dreams will stop interpreting their discord as…

as…

_that._

_***_

Varric wakes up sputtering, clawing at the heavy, suffocating mass wound around his head. For one wild moment he can’t breathe, or see, until his startled brain recognizes his attacker. Flinging the blankets off his face, Varric pushes the tangles of hair off his forehead, and glares at his tent-mate. Cassandra thrashes in her sleep, blankets torn off her bedroll, her face puckered into a frown. Figures she’s even cranky when she’s sleeping, Varric thinks. Though, she at least has the excuse of dreaming which has to be strange.

Cassandra groans.

It’s a soft, shuddery exhale that sounds just a little-

Varric nips that thought in the bud. he’s overtired. His beauty sleep has been interrupted. There is no way he just thought a noise that came from the Seeker was _sexual_.

Not that she can’t be a sexual person. She’s probably had sex. Are Seekers allowed to have sex or are they a celibate order?

Varric rolls on his side, away from Cassandra.

Her bedroll rustles.

“Ah…”

 _Maker_ , Varric swears. He is not going to check on the Seeker. He is not. She is not having a nightmare, and it’s none of his business if she is.

“ _Ahh-_ ”

Varric rolls over.

Cassandra’s sleep shirt hangs off one shoulder, exposing more than he’s sure she’d want him seeing. Not that there’s anything on display more indecent than her collarbone and the soft swell of one breast, just one gentle curve of flesh. Varric averts his eyes. Cassandra squirms, her mouth falling open.

It’s hard not to be drawn in by the sight of her. Not because Cassandra’s stern expression has become something softer, or because she’s dishevelled and lush looking. What Varric finds compelling is the sight of her _dreaming_. It is fascinating. She’s seeing things, feeling things, when there’s nothing to be seen or felt. Not in reality.

It’s hard not to feel a spike of envy. Despite the Fade’s being full of demons and weird creepy shit, and despite the fact that he seems to wind up there more than any dwarf should, sometimes he thinks it would be nice to dream.

Cassandra interrupts his thoughts with a whimper.

Varric wonders how to tell whether she’s having a nightmare.

“ _Var_ ric.”

“Seeker?” There’s a quip on the tip of his tongue, until he realizes that she’s still asleep. Figures that’s the only time she’s said his name with anything approaching fondness.

Varric’s mouth quirks up at the corner as he settles back down against his blankets. Maybe she is having a nightmare, he thinks. If she’s thinking of him.

Cassandra lapses into silence, and then it’s just Varric’s own brain working against him that keeps him awake. Repeating that little sigh she’d made, the mumbled softness of his name on her lips. It shouldn’t affect him. This is _Cassandra Pentaghast_ he’s thinking about. Stabber of books, waylayer of Dwarves…

If it were possible to glare at his own brain, Varric would.

Instead, he darts a quick glance Cassandra’s way, and has to face the truth. Those little noises had been… attractive.

The tips of his ears burn with embarrassment. He’s a grown man. He’s had sex, for fuckssake. It shouldn’t be awkward to admit that-

Cassandra’s breath hitches in a way that is intensely distracting. She moans, low and guttural. Her chest rises and falls in jerks. Varric tears his gaze away from her, from the brief glimpse of her face twisted up in pleasure.

“Maker,” Varric groans.

She’s dreaming, and his money’s on it not being a bad dream. It doesn’t sound like a nightmare, not anymore. It sounds like-

Cassandra whimpers.

Varric closes his eyes. It’s a terrible idea. Cassandra rears up above him, naked with her head thrown back and he can almost _feel_ her, can smell her sweat and soap, especially in the hollow of her throat, that bit where the neck meets her shoulder just above her collarbones. Varric exhales very carefully, ignoring the sudden interest his cock is taking in the whole situation. He is not going to jerk off while sharing a tent with Cassandra, and he is especially not going to do so to the sound of her dreaming about sex.

Cassandra draws in a sharp breath. It trembles in the air, the sound of it sending heat burning through Varric’s veins.

“ _Varric_ ,” she exhales.

Maker he wants to hear her say his name like that, when she’s awake.

Varric sits up, pulling his tunic up over his shoulders. His boots are lost to the tangle of blankets Cassandra kicked on him, jumbled in the bottom of the tent. With a few mumbled curses, he finds them and shoves his feet into them, jamming them in without bothering to find his socks first. Cassandra is dreaming about _him_ and that’s…

Behind him, Cassandra hums out a sigh.

Varric flees through the tent flap and into the semi-darkness of early dawn.

***

Cassandra wakes alone, to a familiar ache between her legs and the fleeting dream-memory of a more familiar dwarf. A dwarf with whom she shares a tent. Any drowsy satisfaction left over from the dream evaporates with the realization that he could’ve _heard_. Cassandra sends a quick prayer up to the Maker, to Andraste, to anyone who might listen:

_Please, let me not have made a noise._

Her blankets are flung every which way through the tent, draped over their packs and piled in an awkward snarl by the tent flap.

Cassandra’s blush deepens. Had she been so lost to dreamt passion that she’d wrecked her bedroll? Had Varric been woken by her thrashing? His presence in their tent is noticeable in its absence. He’s very rarely awake before her.

Though it is a blessing, in its own way.

Varric is not present, and so Cassandra indulges in a weak moment, allowing a smile to cross her face. Regardless of her partner, it had been a _good_ dream.

A little voice points out that in her dream, she had not minded at all that it was Varric. That she had in fact been enthusiastic in her- in their-

“Ugh,” Cassandra says to the empty tent.

Putting their tent back to rights seems to be the least she can do, and has the added benefit of keeping her hands busy.

“Seeker?”

A familiar, rusty voice interrupts a rather ill timed remembrance of her dream.

“Varric,” Cassandra says, praying her voice doesn’t betray her thoughts.

He hesitates before entering their tent, as though unsure of his welcome in a space he shares.

He knows. He has to know, Cassandra thinks.

Varric is silent, sitting on his bedroll with his pack open at his feet. Cassandra waits for the barb, for the cutting remark that is doubtless on its way.

There is nothing. Only the sounds of Varric preparing to write.

“Did you sleep well?” Cassandra asks.

“Like the dead,” Varric says. He does not look up, does not meet her eyes.

Cassandra clears her throat. “Good. That is… good.”

The silence is thick. She returns to her task, busying herself with blankets.

“Did you?”

She looks up at his question. Varric’s ears are red.

“I -” She swallows, before straightening. “Yes,” she says finally.

Varric does not meet her eyes, but there is a hint of a smile on his features. “Good,” he says softly, and the warmth in his tone is both intriguing and terrifying.

“Good,” she repeats, feeling her own blush burn.

“Yeah.”

She doesn’t mean for it to happen, it is only that Varric _blushing_ is a novel sight, and she wants a second look. That’s all it is. Their eyes meet by accident, locking on to one another for an instant that stretches out far too long. Cassandra wrenches her gaze away, back to the important task of putting her things back in order. The temptation to look again itches at her.

“Cassandra?”

The disappointment she feels is almost funny. It’s not Varric’s voice wrapping itself around her name. Cassandra stands, straightens her tunic, and tries to walk past Varric the way she has a thousand or more times before. It doesn’t feel right. Cassandra is acutely aware of his presence, of the way he is very much not looking at her.

“Yes, Inquisitor?” she says, emerging into the bright midmorning light.

Cadash grins, hands on his hips while he waits for her vision to adjust.

“Slept in, did you?” he asks. “We’ve been working you too hard.”

He walks, expecting her to follow. She does, but not without some resentment at his presumption. The position of Inquisitor has not done much for his humility, Cassandra muses, paying no mind to his idle chatter.

“Cassandra?” Cadash calls her, a curious look on his face.

Cassandra calls her thoughts back from her tent, and the man within. Perhaps later she might speak with Varric, now that strangeness between them has faded. The thought brings a smile to her face, and a spring to her step.

“On my way, Inquisitor,” she says, and follows him forward.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good luck to everyone participating in the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	68. 16. Having Some "Private Time" and the Other Accidentally Walking In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra interrupts at an awkward moment. 
> 
> From an anon prompt on Tumblr, filled for the Fic a Day in May challenge.

“Varric have yo- ooh,” Cassandra froze in shock, all the blood in her body racing to her face. “You are…busy. I will…”

Not bothering to finish her sentence, Cassandra slammed Varric’s door shut and walked as fast as she could down the corridor. Her face felt sunburned, and Cassandra felt sure it was giving off heat like a torch. She sped up, and marched unseeing through the hold. Her long stride carried her further and further from Varric’s rooms, and from anyone who might wonder where she was going. Too busy keeping her thoughts blank, Cassandra stepped into nothingness. Stumbling, she staggered against the wall, one hand clasped to her speeding heart. 

Varric had been-

She’d _seen_ -

Her traitorous body _warmed_ at the memory.

_Varric draped in golden afternoon light, the air in his rooms thick from his bath. His wet hair scraped back off his face, dripping down his neck and chest, his expression agonized as he stroked his cock-_

_The shock on his face when he’d opened his eyes to see her gawking at him._

Cassandra buried her burning face in her hands. Bad enough to have barged in on Bull and Erin, now she’d interrupted Varric… pleasuring himself. Unlike with Bull and Erin, she hadn't had Cullen and Josephine to diffuse the situation, nor did she feel anything like the indifference she’d felt on getting an eyeful of the Iron Bull’s assets. Though how in the Maker’s name he and Erin-

Cassandra gave her head a sharp shake. 

The fact of it was that she'd seen Varric in an intimate moment and it had been a sight-

Cassandra licked her dry lips. 

She needed to go hit something. A lot. Anything to distract her from thinking about Varric, about her body’s reaction to him and his broad shoulders and the flex of his arms, his-

Cassandra bolted down the stairs towards the training grounds. 

***

Night fell before Cassandra hauled herself into the keep looking for a bath. Her muscles ached, her steps dragged, and she had broken another training dummy, but finally she’d managed to put thoughts of Varric out of her head. Her reaction earlier had been due to nothing more than shock. It was as simple as that. Now that the surprise had worn off, she could behave as any other adult might, and forget that she’d ever seen anything untoward. The only reason to feel any concern was over what exactly Varric might _say_. Cassandra mounted the stairs to the Great Hall, wondering how they’d managed to add extra steps and why no one had thought to tell her. 

The doors to the Great Hall stood open, leaking warmth out into the cold night. Cassandra slipped through the doors and realized she’d made a terrible mistake. 

Varric leaned over his table, burnished gold by the firelight. 

Cassandra’s brain wasted no time in reminding her that she’d seen him naked, gaped as he touched himself. That she’d found the sight of him _enticing._ That the reality of him had no competition from the Varric who’d starred in her dreams of late. 

He didn’t look up as she passed by his table. It was not unusual- Skyhold was not so large that they did not meet several times a day. If they stopped to exchange pleasantries every time they met, nothing would be done. Cassandra did her best to act as she always does. After all, nothing had changed. She had seen Varric naked. It was not such a big deal. 

She grinned, ducking her head so no one would notice. 

_Big deal._

It’s immature to giggle, Cassandra told herself. She is a woman grown, she has seen her share of naked people. It was not the first time she’s seen a man’s-

Cassandra jerked herself away from that thought. 

A bath. She needs a bath, and afterwards she will beg a small plate of food from the kitchens and retire to her room. Where she will not think any more on Varric or his… endowments. 

Was that _normal_ , for a dwarf?

Maker. Perhaps she ought to spend the rest of her night in the Chantry. 

“Cassandra?” There are dozens of stairwells in Skyhold, Cassandra thought. Why is it he had to choose this one?

She hesitated before turning around. “Varric,” she said.

They watch each other, stiff shouldered and wary-eyed. The torches crackled, loud in their shared silence. Varric licks his lips. 

“Earlier,” he said. His voice always sounded so rusty, as though he’s speaking after a long silence. 

“I am sorry,” Cassandra said. It was true. She was tired of wondering what it meant, to follow Varric with her eyes. “I should have knocked; you would think after Bull I would have learned.” 

Varric grinned. 

“Caught Tiny in flagrante?” He leered, though there was nothing sordid in his attitude. “Want to tell me about it? For posterity?” 

Cassandra laughed. “I am not telling you, if Erin has already refused,” she said through her smile. “May it suffice to say I do not wish to repeat the experience, though I now understand why he is the Iron Bull.” 

She arched an eyebrow. Varric stared at her, before snorting out a laugh that seemed to surprise him, too. 

When he looked up at her again, it was with an appreciation in his gaze that Cassandra felt all the way to her toes. 

“Sure I can’t get the whole story out of you?” he asked. “Over drinks at the Rest?”

Cassandra’s heart thumped. Varric’s eyes regain their lost wariness. Cassandra thought about her sore muscles, her bath, and the unfinished chapter of her most recent book. A quiet night of rest, alone with the thoughts she doesn’t want to think. 

“I would perhaps be persuaded,” Cassandra said. “After my bath, if that is alright?”

Varric’s gaze drags from her head to her toes. 

She may as well be there in her smalls, Cassandra thought. If she wore such things. 

Whatever it was in Varric’s gaze, it was gone by the time he met her eyes again. In its place is his usual bland good humour. 

“Need someone to wash your back?” he asked. “How do humans manage?”

“I will be fine,” Cassandra said, and smiled at him. “I am very flexible.”

Varric exhaled. 

“See you for drinks?” he asked.

“I would not miss it,” Cassandra replied. “I will see you then, Varric.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Ruffles for helping me with all the tenses! <3


	69. 15. Loud So Everyone Can Hear (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra avenges herself on Varric

“Louder.” 

Varric bares his teeth, face screwed up in a grimace. His fingers tangle in the bedsheets. A ragged groan escapes his mouth. Cassandra kisses his stomach, her breath ghosting over sweat-slick skin. She is very pointedly ignoring his cock, touching every inch of Varric’s body except where he really, _really_ needs her to. 

“Cassandra-” Varric gasps. 

Her eyes meet his. She’s gorgeous, kneeling between his spread legs, her lips red and slick, her face flushed. Her smirk curls the corners of her mouth. No servant of the Divine should look so debauched, it’s very unfair, Varric thinks. Cassandra stretches up to kiss him, hard and filthy. His cock grazes her stomach, and Varric's hands fly to her waist, urging her down until he can rut against her hip. Cassandra groans, her teeth sinking into Varric’s lower lip. It stings but the pain only amplifies how much he fucking _needs_ Cassandra to touch him. Her mouth moves to his neck, kissing a path up his throat that has Varric squirming helplessly. 

“Do you remember,” she says. “Our last mission?”

Varric struggles to remember how words work. 

“Zippy dragged us to the Hinterlands,” he says, voice uneven. 

“You made me scream,” Cassandra breathes. She nips his earlobe, and Varric shudders. 

“We woke up the whole damn camp,” Varric says. 

Cassandra hums an affirmative, busy sucking a love bite into the soft skin of his throat. He palms her ass, fingers digging in as she kisses him again. Cassandra rears back, looking down at him with an expression he can only call ‘dangerous’. Excitement burns along his nerves. 

“Consider this revenge,” she says.

When she slinks back down between his legs, Varric almost whimpers. Cassandra moves with intent, with confidence. He has her full attention, Varric knows. Strong, callused fingers grip his cock. Varric cups Cassandra’s face, his thumb stroking her cheek. Her fingers squeeze him, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. 

Varric breathes very slowly through his nose.

She smirks, looking up at him from beneath her lashes. 

There are probably laws against looks that indecent, Varric thinks, before Cassandra licks a messy stripe up the length of his cock. All rational thought shoots right out of his head. 

“Ha-aah!” 

Varric’s hands flutter uselessly around Cassandra’s head and shoulders. The wet heat of her mouth is overwhelming and perfect. 

“Don’t- don’t _stop_!” 

Cassandra moans low in her throat, and takes more of him. Her nose brushes against Varric’s stomach, and he whines, fingers clenched tightly in her hair. Their tent is mostly silent save for their heavy breathing and the wet sound of Cassandra sucking Varric’s brain out through his cock. 

Until she stops. 

Varric tries his hardest not to rock his hips, to keep still. 

“Well, dwarf?” she says, breathless.

Her fingers trail along his aching, bereft cock. 

“Cassandra-” 

“Louder.” 

Varric’s fingers rake through the sheets. Cassandra continues stroking him with one hand, and lets the fingers of her free hand trip across the shining expanse of her chest to plump one breast. Varric watches, rapt, as she tweaks one nipple. Her teeth catch at her lower lip. All the while her other hand keeps its rhythm. Too slow. 

“ _Please_ , Cassandra-” 

The words tear themselves from his throat. Cassandra’s eyes light up, her mouth falls open as she draws in a sharp breath. 

“Don’t stop,” she says, and bends to seal her mouth around his cock once more. 

Maker it is the best thing he’s ever felt, he’s never needed someone so desperately that it burns, it aches not to touch her. The barest look, the scent of her soap on the breeze can drive him wild, and he’s babbling now, words spilling out of him in a blur of moans and panting breaths and incoherent sounds. 

“Cass,” he says, though it’s more a whimper that happens to sound like her name. 

Cassandra meets his eyes, looking up at him with her mouth stretched around his cock. It’s the filthiest fucking thing he’s ever seen. Varric unclenches his hands from her hair, and leans up, drags his palms across her shoulders. He can just barely reach Cassandra’s breasts and it’s the best fucking idea he’s had all night. She jerks like she’s been shocked, and _mewls_ , her eyes rolling back into her head. 

“Maker, _maker come here,_ ” Varric begs, yanking at Cassandra’s shoulders.

He wants to come, _needs_ to, but the need for Cassandra is stronger. He needs to taste her, touch her, be inside her, anything. 

Her mouth tastes like him, like his skin and his arousal and heat. Cassandra swings one leg over his thigh and kisses him again, grinding her cunt down against his leg. 

“Louder, my love,” Cassandra sighs out, her head thrown back. 

Varric whimpers, _keens_ wordlessly. Cassandra topples forwards, plants an arm on either side of his head. He can feel her, against his leg. Wet and scalding hot and- 

Cassandra’s breasts swing over his face. 

A low, ragged groan rips out of her, as Varric sucks on her breast, tongue swirling against the tip of one nipple while his fingers toy with the other. Cassandra shakes, moans louder as she thrusts her breasts into Varric’s face, rubs herself harder against his thigh. 

She’s going to come like this, he realizes. 

“Can I fuck you please can I fuck you, _Cassandra please-”_

“ _Yes!”_

She moves, does _something_ that Varric’s mind blurs out because the important thing is that he’s finally inside her. Warm and wet and soft, it shouldn’t be possible for such softness to exist and he’s-

“Rambling, my love,” Cassandra says, a laugh in her voice. 

“Your fault,” Varric grunts. 

Cassandra just rolls her hips and Varric’s mind blanks.

“Fuck me,” she says. 

Varric groans. Cassandra has one hand braced on his chest, her head bowed. Her fingers dig into his skin. Varric grabs hold of her hips, hangs on for dear life. He wants to thrust up into her, flip her over and fuck her til she can't even scream his name. He can't. Cassandra’s legs quake when she rises up, his cock slipping out of wet heat of her cunt. One unsteady thrust is all they manage, before Cassandra grinds herself back down onto him, her hips moving in jerky circles. She arches back, one hand supporting her body, the other between her legs. 

Varric can hear himself panting, mingled with weak sobs. Cassandra’s body flutters, spasms around him. Her teeth dig into her lip, her fingers move faster and faster on her clit. She’s soaking wet, he can feel her dripping down his thighs. His own legs shake. Cassandra's body _squeezes_ , her cunt clenched so tightly around his cock it edges into painful. 

“ _Ah-”_

“Cass-”

“ _Ah!”_

The helpless little noises she makes sing down Varric’s nerves. Cassandra jolts, her body snapping taut then buckling forward, wracked with tiny shudders. Both her hands grope at his shoulders. Her breathing hitches. 

“I- Cassandra I _can’t I can’t please-_ ”

She whines, her face buried against his neck. 

Varric comes, empties himself into her so fast it's almost startling. His eyes squeeze shut, his arms locked around Cassandra. He’s not sure who’s shaking harder, and remembering how to form words takes longer than expected. 

“Hng-” Varric says. 

Cassandra is a dead weight. She mutters something against his shoulder, and does not move. Varric sympathises. Her breathing begins to even into the slow rhythm of sleep. Varric blinks once, twice against the hefty weight of his own eyelids. He yawns widely, jaw cracking from the strain of it. Cassandra shifts, fighting against the lure of sleep. She struggles back up into wakefulness long enough to roll off Varric’s chest, and lands in an ungainly heap on the bedroll next to him. Varric yawns again, clinging to consciousness for the time it takes to curl himself around Cassandra like a vine. 

“Love you,” he mumbles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god i didn't realize this would be chapter 69...
> 
> prompted by enigmaticagentalice, filled for the fic a day in may challenge


	70. Dog Days of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Varric, having been adopted by a charming stray dog, makes a friend. Thank you to the anon who prompted Varric and a dog, and to V who wanted me to discuss Cassandra in short shorts.

“Hawke! _Hawke!_ ” 

Varric scrambles down the park path towards his dog and the jogger she’s happily mauling. 

“Shit. Shit, I’m sorry. She’s friendly, I swear.” 

The woman sprawled in the grass manages to bat Hawke’s fluffy tail out of her face long enough to glare up at him. 

“I can tell,” she says. 

Hawke’s tail wags. She butts the woman’s shoulder with her head, whuffing in doggie bliss as the jogger scratches the sweet spot behind one of Hawke’s floppy ears. Her only floppy ear, really. THe other one sticks straight up and is missing the top third. Not that that bothers Hawke. She collapses onto the woman’s lap, her belly exposed. Pawing at the woman’s hand, Hawke gives her a pleading look with both mismatched eyes. 

Varric wipes his hand over his face. 

“We’re working on obedience training,” he says.

Hawke pants. The jogger gives Varric an amused look, and scratches her tummy. 

“She’s shameless,” the woman says. “What did you say her name was?”

“Hawke,” Varric says. 

As if to acknowledge that this is indeed her name, Hawke licks the woman’s hand. 

“I’m Cassandra,” she says, mostly to Hawke. 

She’s pretty. Varric looks down at her, sprawled in the grass with his hussy of a dog, and resolves to give Hawke a treat later. After a stretch of time that’s edging on indecent, Hawke decides to leave her new best friend alone, and darts off to sniff some bushes. 

Cassandra stands up, and Varric decides his faithful mutt deserves at least two treats. Cassandra is _stunning_. She dusts dog hair off her legs, long muscular legs that draw the eye upwards to the smallest pair of shorts Varric has ever had the pleasure to see. They’re purple, and the sort of thing designed for serious runners. And small. Varric’s a little hung up on that bit. 

“I’m Varric,” he says, mostly because she’s looking at him now, one eyebrow raised. 

“It is a pleasure,” Cassandra says. She smiles in Hawke’s direction. “Your dog is a sweetheart.” 

“She’s a brat,” Varric corrects. 

Cassandra laughs. Then she smiles at him, and Varric would very much like it if she kept smiling at him. It does wonderful things to her eyes. 

“Spoken like a true dog owner,” she says. 

“Do you have any pets?” Varric asks. 

Hawke trots back over, winding around Cassandra’s legs. Cassandra crouches to ruffle the dog’s ears. 

“I have a dog too,” she says. “You would like her, Hawke. Her name is Merrill.” 

Hawke chuffs, and gives Varric a beseeching look. 

“There’s a dog park down the way,” he says. “Maybe we’ll see you there, sometime?”

Cassandra smiles again. 

Her nose crinkles when she smiles, Varric notices. 

“I would like that,” she says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filled for the fic a day in may challenge


	71. 7. Being Drenched While Wearing White

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Viscount of Kirkwall and Divine Victoria have a meeting.

“It will not rain,” Divine Victoria proclaims. “Nor am I made of sugar, that I will melt if it does.” 

Varric’s in no place to argue. He should. The Divine taking a walk through the gardens with the Viscount of Kirkwall is unobjectionable. Unless those noble personages are meant to be reviewing accords and sanctions, instead. It sounded dry and tedious when Bran had told him of it, and Varric had said so. He’d been right. By noon Divine Victoria had begun fidgeting in her chair, and Varric had ruined several documents by adding educational illustrations. Contrary to her abrupt declaration about the weather, the sky outside the Divine’s office was overcast. 

“You control the weather now, Most Holy?” Varric inquires. 

She fixes him with a look that is not at all holy. 

“You are released for the afternoon, Viscount Tethras,” she says. “I believe seneschal Cavin had several documents for you to review.”

Varric arches an eyebrow. 

“Nothing I’d rather do than escort your holiness through the gardens,” he says. 

Divine Victoria doesn’t smile, except through the warmth of her eyes. 

“I am pleased to have you accompany me, Viscount,” she says. “Guards, inform Leliana that the Viscount and I have retired to the gardens.”

The guards salute.

“You may leave us,” the Divine says, with the most regal gesture Varric’s ever seen her make. 

The guards clank out of the room. Divine Victoria adjusts her absurd wimple. Assured of its security, she rises and walks with her ground devouring steps towards the garden stairs. Varric saunters along in her wake. The day is at least warm, despite the clear signs of incoming bad weather. 

“What is keeping you, Varric?” Divine Victoria asks. She shoots him a look over her shoulder that’s caught somewhere between fondness and vexation. 

Varric ambles down the steps.

“Enjoying the view,” he says. “Gardens are pretty nice, too.”

The Divine snorts. “You do not change, do you?”

“Not if I can help it,” Varric says. 

The path takes them deeper into the garden’s lush green gloom, through several arches sagging with flowering vines. It smells fantastic, heady and verdant. Divine Victoria strolls along, hips swaying beneath the clinging white of her robes. She wears them well, with the exception of the wimple. Varric’s sure no one could manage to make that thing look good. 

“I am glad of it,” the Divine says. 

She does smile, and Varric can’t help the little flipflop his stomach does. Of all the benefits that come with being Viscount of Kirkwall, he never expected to count ‘liaising with the Divine’ as one of them. These visits to Orlais have become something he looks forward to, and that doesn’t surprise him as much as it should. After all, the Divine is one of his biggest fans. And a friend, which actually is surprising.

“Always pleased to be of service to Your Perfection,” Varric says. 

Divine Victoria stills. 

“Are you?” she asks. 

Raindrops spatter down onto Varric’s head. Wet spots bloom on the Divine’s white robes. 

“Told you it would rain!” Varric says. 

“There’s a gazebo down the way,” the Divine says. “It is closer than the palace.” 

The rain intensifies, an opaque curtain of water blotting out their surroundings. Divine Victoria curls her fingers around Varric’s wrist and tugs. She picks up the hem of her robes with the other hand, and dashes down the path, towing Varric behind her. The gazebo looms up out of the rain, washed grey in the dim light. 

“Easy, Seeker!” Varric stumbles up the short set of stairs, into the relative dryness of the gazebo. 

Divine Victoria stands stock still, her fingers clasped loosely around Varric’s wrist. 

“What did you say?” she asks.

Varric chuckles. “Old habits.”

Divine Victoria steps back, lets go of his wrist. Varric gapes. 

“What is it, Varric?” she says, favouring him with a curious look. 

“I uh. Your robes,” he says. “They’re-” 

Varric gestures at her. His aren’t the only habits that die hard, if what he’s seeing is anything to judge by.

Divine Victoria looks down at herself, and blushes. It clashes with the vibrant red accents on her robe and wimple. 

Varric turns his back, staring out into the blurred garden. Despite being soaked to the skin, he’s suddenly very warm. 

“Varric?” the Divine says. 

“Your holiness?” he replies, his back still to her. 

“You might say my name,” she says. 

Varric shivers. The Divine lays a hand on his shoulder. 

“Cassandra,” he murmurs. 

Her fingers are chilly beneath his. She lets him carry her hand to his mouth, lets him press a kiss to her palm. 

“Varric,” Cassandra says. Her voice shakes. 

Varric spins around, pulls on her arm until he can tangle his fingers in her hair, mercifully devoid of the wimple. Cassandra kisses him, her hands clutching at his shoulders. 

“This is a bad idea,” Varric mutters. 

“It is,” Cassandra says. She sinks to her knees, kisses the join of his neck and jaw. “A terrible idea. You are Viscount Tethras.” 

Varric floats his hands down her sides, rucking up the fabric of her robes. 

“You’re Divine Victoria,” he says. “Most Holy.” 

Cassandra arches into him.

“I am Cassandra Pentaghast,” she says. “I am still myself.” 

Varric palms her ass. 

“Thank the Maker for that,” he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by an anon on tumblr, filled for the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	72. I Think I'm in Love With You, and I'm Terrified

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spiritual successor to yesterday's fic. 
> 
> Varric and Cassandra go their separate ways.

Varric drowses, not quite awake yet and far too comfortable to do more than appreciate the warmth and softness of the bed he’s in, and who he’s sharing it with. 

“Good news?” he murmurs. 

Cassandra hums, threading her fingers through his hair. Varric wraps his arm around her waist. 

“News from Leliana, and her Warden,” Cassandra says. “They are quite pleased with her posting as official liaison to the Grey Wardens.” 

Pages rustle, and Cassandra laughs. 

“She sends her hope that we are happy,” she tells Varric’s crown. 

He does manage to stir at that. Propping himself up on one elbow, he gives his lover a curious look. 

“Thought we were keeping a lid on all this,” he says, gesturing between them. 

Cassandra smirks. “It is Leliana, are you _truly_ surprised?” 

Varric tilts his head. An errant swath of hair falls into his eyes. Cassandra reaches over and brushes it behind his ear with the utmost gentleness. Her fingers drift across his cheekbone, down the crease of his nose, and his mouth. Varric kisses her fingertips, then her palm, and the pulse in her wrist.

“Most Holy?”

There is a discreet tapping at the outer door of Cassandra’s suite. 

Cassandra freezes. Varric can feel her body stiffen, then sag. 

“Could always play hooky, Seeker,” he whispers. 

He already knows what her answer is, what it inevitably has to be. Neither of them can shirk their duties. 

“I cannot,” she murmurs. “Not even for you, Varric.” 

Varric smiles against her shoulder, and unwinds his arms from her waist. 

“Go on, Your Holiness. I’ll see you at the state dinner this evening,” he says. 

Cassandra slips out from beneath the sheets, and Varric has a moment to admire her before she shrugs on her dressing gown. Her muscles flex and stretch and he could write odes about her shoulders. Instead, he hops out of bed and searches for his own clothes. By the time he’s got his tunic buttoned, Cassandra has gone and Most Holy Divine Victoria sweeps into the bedroom. Varric reaches for her, tangles his hands in her hair for one last kiss before she puts that awful wimple back on. 

“I will see you this evening, Viscount,” she says, when she can catch her breath. 

It’s a good look on her, and Varric hates having to leave her when he’d rather stay and waste the rest of the morning in bed. 

Cassandra smiles, her nose crinkling. 

Maker, he doesn’t want to go sneaking back through the hidden corridors that connect his suite to hers. There are hours until he can see her again, not counting the state dinner in the evening where they’ll be expected to play their respective public roles. He doesn’t want to see Her Holiness, Varric realizes. He wants to see Cassandra. 

“I’ll count the hours,” Varric says. 

“Most Holy?”

Cassandra huffs, sends an annoyed glance towards the antechamber of her suite. For a split second, Varric thinks-

He thinks she’ll throw it all to the wind, for one day. One more hour, with him. She won’t, and he wouldn’t love her if she did, because that’s not something Cassandra Pentaghast would ever allow. Above all, she is honourable. Loyal. 

Cassandra bends, and kisses his forehead in what feels more like a blessing than a farewell between lovers.

Varric turns and presses the panel behind him. The well oiled hidden door slides open, and he steps into the cramped passageway. His heart rams against his chest, on its way down to his toes. 

The door clicks shut behind him. 

“I love you,” Varric says, experimentally. 

It sounds terrifying, even though there’s only the dust and cobwebs to hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For uchidachi on tumblr, who prompted it. Thank you!
> 
> Filled for the Fic a Day in May challenge.


	73. As An Apology

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Divine Victoria and Varric share some words

The secret panel slides shut. Varric’s presence in her room is reduced to rumpled sheets and the lingering scent of him. It’s more than possible she’s imagining the latter. Cassandra rests her fingertips on the panel, polished to an implausible sleekness. She could trip the mechanism and catch Varric, follow him to his suite or bring him back to hers. Let him stay and damn whoever might protest. Damn the inevitable political fallout, when the nobles discover the Divine has taken the Viscount of Kirkwall as her lover. The city has prospered in the last few years, and while their affair is newer, many of their political opponents would not hesitate to declare favouritism. She would not have their achievements trivialised so, not when they have both worked so hard. 

“Most Holy?” 

Her secretary would never do something so outside the bounds of propriety like shout with exasperation at the Divine. The woman’s voice does become louder and harsher the more Cassandra ignores her. Until she opens the main door, she is still Cassandra Pentaghast, despite her robes. Once she lets the outside in, she will be Divine Victoria, with all of her associated responsibilities and ridiculous headwear. 

Cassandra pulls her fingers back from the panel with regret. There is still the state dinner, hours away, which Viscount Tethras has promised to attend. Hours which will stretch and distort until it seems days have passed. 

***

The state dinner is awful. Nobles abound, chattering and gossiping, doing their utmost to thwart or avenge any perceived slight or threat to their impressive and important selves. It is the last place on earth Cassandra would like to be. Even Varric’s presence is not the balm it ought to be. They are trapped in the rules of the Game. A lingering look might be fodder for snide remarks, or worse, if some noble family thinks they could benefit should the Viscount of Kirkwall suddenly encounter ‘difficulties’. 

“Most Holy,” Varric murmurs. He offers her a flute of champagne, and a very proper bow. 

“Viscount Tethras,” Cassandra says, as though she does not know who he is. As if Varric does not visit Orlais whenever it is feasible. “You enjoy yourself, I hope?”

Varric surveys the crowd of mingling nobles and social climbers. They are still not sure what to make of him, an infamous author and adventurer, a surface dwarf. The dwarves avoid him, and the humans do not bother much, save to ask about his books. 

“Hate to disappoint, Your Holiness,” he says. “Is lying to the Divine a criminal offense?”

“If it were, I could send half this party to the dungeons, and the other half to the gallows,” Cassandra remarks.

Varric gives this the appropriate response, which is a small smile and an appreciative glance. 

Maker but the Game is a cold companion. 

Before the crush of people can carry him off, Varric presses her hand, bows over it in a formal gesture that is not at all usual for him. Cassandra pockets the slip of paper he palms her, and sweeps off to be the head of the Chantry at some irritating nobles. 

***

Weariness weights her limbs, even though the hour is not quite so late as it could be. Having survived the state dinner, all Cassandra must do now is keep awake until Varric arrives. It is not so easy as it sounds. Her head droops once, twice. 

“Seeker?” Soft lips brush her forehead. 

Cassandra smiles, slow and sweet and exhausted. 

“Varric,” she mumbles. “It is late.” 

“Bran wanted to check the travel itinerary for the trip back to Kirkwall. Wants to make a few stops along the way,” Varric says. 

“He is very diligent,” Cassandra says.

Unwinding herself from the loveseat is easy when she can drape herself over Varric instead. 

“Not what I’d call him,” Varric says. 

“Poor man,” Cassandra says. Yawns. “Come to bed, my love.” 

Varric’s steps falter. His grip on her waist tightens, then grows slack. Cassandra sags in his arms, just for a moment. Just long enough to remember that she is Cassandra Pentaghast, Seeker of Truth, Divine Victoria. Then she straightens, steps out from the circle of Varric’s arms. 

“Don’t worry about it, Seeker. Slip of the tongue,” he says. Waves a hand. 

“It was not,” Cassandra says. “I do not say such things lightly.” 

“You’re dead on your feet, Seeker. It’s fine,” Varric says, his smile gone tight and flat. 

“I am not an idiot, Varric. I know what I said, and I meant-” Cassandra pauses. Her hands clench into fists at her sides. 

“I love you,” she says. It sounds apologetic to her ears, as though it is a failing in her that she must excuse. 

“I love you,” she says again, stronger this time. The way Varric ought to hear it. “If you do not- I do not wish to trap you, it is only how I feel.” 

Varric gawks at her. For the first time in a long time, Cassandra cannot read his face. 

“You-” he says. Stops. 

The sheer bewilderment on his face would be humourous, were the situation different. As it is, he looks like a man who has stepped out into thin air, expecting solid ground.

“If you would rather go,” Cassandra says. “You may. Do not stay and… and _pander_ to my feelings.” 

Varric catches hold of her sleeve, reels her in until they are pressed together. His face is obscured by her chest. Cassandra can feel his breath humid against her skin, even through her night shirt. His hands splay across her back, holding her still with an urgency that Cassandra does not understand. 

Varric’s body heaves. 

Splotches of wetness stick Cassandra’s night shirt to her skin. 

“Varric?” she asks. “Are you…”

His shoulders quiver. Varric tilts his head, shows her red eyes glossy with tears. 

“That was. Uh. Surprising,” he says. Laughs ruefully. 

Cassandra strokes his hair back from his face. 

Varric looks up at her, hope and fear in his eyes. 

“Is it?” Cassandra asks. 

“You _love me_ ,” Varric points out. “That’s a bit…” 

“Surprising?” Cassandra supplies. 

Varric’s mouth quirks up in a small grin. He rests his forehead against her sternum. 

“Yeah,” he say into the expanse of her night shirt. “That.” 

“Do you still...wish to continue this?” Cassandra asks. “Knowing how I feel?”

“Since I love you, too?” Varric says. “Dunno Seeker, things might get a little awkward.” 

Cassandra rolls her eyes. Stills. Shoves at Varric’s shoulders. 

“What did you say?” she demands. 

“That things might get awkward?” Varric says. 

Cassandra snorts. 

Varric grins at her. 

“I love you too, Seeker,” he says, pulling her down into a kiss. 

“Thank the Maker,” Cassandra murmurs against his mouth. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by an anon on tumblr, filled for the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	74. Always Fresh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I am Canadian, vehlr requested I write a Tim Hortons' AU

The midnight shift at Tim’s is dead. More so than usual. It's a nice change. Varric pulls a battered notebook out of his apron pocket (a non uniform apron and a non uniform notebook it’s 4 am and there's no one but the security cameras to see) and settles in at the counter to write. It's somehow peaceful, the restaurant a small oasis of warm yellow fluorescent lights. The air smells of coffee and doughnuts, and a little like the scalded soup from earlier. It's easy to block out the rest of the world and lose himself in writing. 

“Excuse me,” a woman’s voice says. 

Varric looks up, way up into the sharp, tired eyes of a beautiful woman. 

“Sorry,” he says, tucking his pen behind his ear. “Welcome to Tim Hortons’, can I take your order?”

The woman stares up at the menu, then at the few doughnuts and bagels left on the shelf, the racks of timbits that are near on overflowing. 

“I would like a small coffee,” she says. “Two creams, two sugars, please.”

She shoots a look at the timbits. 

Varric grins. “First time?”

“First…? No, I have been in a coffee shop before,” the woman says. 

“First time in a Tim Hortons,” Varric says. “Regulars call that order a _double double_.”

When he turns back around with her coffee, Varric almost drops it in surprise. The woman is bent over his open notebook, one elegant finger pinning down the page. Varric plops her coffee cup down on the table. 

“Usually I like to be on a first name basis with people who invade my privacy,” he says.

“I’ve read this,” his nosy customer whispers. 

In awe, Varric realizes. As if she’s found an unexpected treasure. 

“You haven’t. It's not finished,” he says. 

Startled, embarrassed brown eyes flick up to his. 

“I've read the first one,” she clarifies, gesturing at the page. “This happens after _Swords and Shields_. Is it… I didn't realize there was _fanfiction!_ ”

She sounds so excited, Varric’s fixed smile becomes genuine. 

“You're a fan?” he asks. 

“I-” she blushes, rosy from her ears all the way down her throat and (presumably) past the collar of her shirt. “Do not laugh.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” Varric says. “I wrote the damn thing.”

The woman gapes at him. 

“You didn't,” she says. “I do not- you’re _Varric Tethras!?_ ”

“Guilty,” Varric says. 

“Maker,” she exhales. 

It is _definitely_ bad for his ego to have a beautiful woman staring at him like he hung the stars. Varric motions toward the display case next to him. 

“I’ll throw some timbits in for free,” he says. 

The woman’s face immediately closes down. 

“If?” she asks. 

“If you’ll tell me your name,” Varric says. 

The woman studies him for a moment. Her eyes dart down to his notebook. 

“I get to finish the page I was reading,” she says. 

“Deal.” Varric loads one of the cheery yellow boxes with assorted timbits.

“Cassandra Pentaghast,” she says. 

Varric grins up at her, nudging the box of timbits and his notebook over. Cassandra’s fingers brush his, and when she smiles at him, big and a little awkward, but happy, Varric’s knees definitely do not wobble. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic a Day in May challenge continues!


	75. A Hush

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra is alone and Varric feels regret

Varric doesn’t mean to eavesdrop. Having committed himself to it though, he has to commit to the results of that action. Namely, he has to take a further action. Cassandra’s shoulders heave. He can leave- she doesn’t seem to be aware of his presence- or he can step forward and offer her some kind of comfort. There ought to be a third option, something that doesn’t leave him feeling like a complete tool. There isn’t. There is only the choice he has to make about who he is. Is he the kind of man to eavesdrop on a woman crying, and do nothing about it? Purposefully turn his back on someone suffering? 

Varric considers Cassandra’s shaking shoulders, the way she is hunched in on herself. Like a wounded animal she had wandered far from their camp, to suffer in silence. He wonders what that says about her, about them. Is there no one Cassandra can trust, can go to with this grief? It seems appalling, that she should be forced to hide away like this. Crying in the darkness, in the wilderness, like she’s ashamed to do something so vulnerable. 

_Cassandra had a_ feeling _!_

His own voice jeers at him. Varric winces. It is possible that he’s responsible for some of this. 

A sob hangs in the air, choked off in an excess of misery.

Varric recognizes the sound of a grief so deep that it scars.

He has waited too long; his conscience nags at him. The moment he’d realized that Cassandra had fled their camp to cry, he should’ve turned around. Now he’s been watching her so long it’s becoming voyeuristic. Does he hate her so much?

“Seeker?” Varric says, drawing out of the shadows. 

“What do you want,” Cassandra says, her voice a pale imitation of itself. She’s valiantly pretending she hasn’t been weeping. 

Varric trips over his own tongue trying to come up with a suitable answer. 

“I wanted to check on you,” he says. Close enough to and far enough away from the truth. 

“I am fine,” Cassandra says. 

“If you-” he starts. 

“Go back to camp, Varric. Leave,” she orders. 

He can hear the tears trembling in her voice, the hold she’s barely keeping on herself. It’s not a good feeling, Varric realizes, knowing that she sees him as a threat. An intruder. Someone you hide your real self from. 

He’s been an ass. 

“Cassandra,” Varric says. Steps forward. 

Cassandra swirls to her feet, towering and fearsome in the near blackness of the woods. 

“Go,” she snarls. “Now.” 

Her hand rests on her sword. Varric’s only somewhat sure it’s an unconscious gesture on her part. He melts back into the shadows, feet finding the path to camp without input from his brain. 

He is not a man who could bring her any comfort. He is not so good a man as he’d thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by an anon on tumblr who asked for Cassandra mourning Regalyan's death, and Varric comforting her. It went a little awry.


	76. Cassandra's Bad Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A string of small annoyances has Cassandra on edge

Her pen clattered to the floor, spraying ink across the wood planks. Cassandra glared at it, than at her own clumsy fingers. She’d dropped the accursed thing three times already, splattering ink and damaging two nibs beyond repair. This fourth time was the last straw. Gritting her teeth against barracks-language, Cassandra shoved herself away from her table. The inkwell immediately tipped, rolling on its side towards the table’s edge. Cassandra lurched forward and snatched it out of the air. Her fingers closed around the bottle in triumph. Until wetness seeped across her palm. Breathing through her exasperation, Cassandra deposited the inkwell on a discarded report. Scrubbing at her ink-black hand with a rag did little to improve things. She left off trying to salvage her skin and used the rag to smear ink off the bottle as best she could, before securing its little stopper. The inkwell dealt with, Cassandra bent to pick up her pen. Intact, thankfully. 

Surveying her ink drenched room, Cassandra placed her pen on the table and instead strapped on her sword belt. Perhaps some exercise would iron out whatever was the matter with her. 

A hope which turned out to be far too optimistic. 

Cassandra couldn’t put her finger on what was worse. The damage to her sword, the Inquisitor’s humiliation, or Varric’s obvious glee. Gaze flicking from her sword to Kat’s tears, and Varric’s grin, Cassandra decided to declare the whole thing a lost cause. 

“Do not concern yourself about it, Inquisitor. The gesture was a thoughtful one,” Cassandra said. 

Kat raised her eyes to Cassandra’s chin, her shoulders up by her ears. 

“I’m sorry,” she mumbled. “I thought stronger training dummies would..” 

Cassandra laid a hand on the poor girl’s tense shoulder, and spared a black, uncharitable thought for the senior Trevelyans. 

“It is alright, truly,” Cassandra said. 

“Of course. I will… I will. Go, now,” Kat stammered. 

Cassandra watched the girl stride across the courtyard in long, jerky steps, her head lowered. She was still frowning when Varric drew up to her side. 

“Poor Mouse,” Varric said. 

“You should not have laughed,” Cassandra remarked, which was unfair of her.

Varric looked up at her. 

“You fell on your ass,” he pointed out. “It was kinda funny.” 

Cassandra slanted a frown down at him. 

“Seeker-” 

“No, you are right,” Cassandra said, cutting him off. “It was humourous.” 

“I can’t even enjoy it when you say it like that,” Varric opined. “You’re ruining my fun, Seeker.” 

“I will remove myself, then,” Cassandra said. 

She exhaled, and turned to face Varric. 

“I did not-” Cassandra pressed her lips together. 

She regarded Varric for a moment. With an incline of her head, Cassandra dismissed herself. Self control kept her from running back to the forge, though she felt like it. She took the stairs two at a time, eager to be out of sight and safe in the space she’d hewn out for herself. A space that was currently devoid of her preferred mug, home to a tea-soaked book, diverse ink-blotches, and a terminally abused pen. Cassandra mentally added “chipped sword” and “bruised tailbone” to the tally of minor annoyances she’d suffered that day. 

Midway through unlatching her chestplate, Cassandra heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. 

“Varric,” she said without looking. 

“How’d you know?” he asked. 

Cassandra deposited her chestplate on its stand. 

“You walk differently when you are trying to be heard,” she said.

Varric huffed out a laugh. “Didn’t think sneaking up on you was a good move.” 

Cassandra stretched her back, wondered whether she ought to risk a bath, once Varric had gone. With the way her day had gone, doing so was doubtless tempting Fate to all sorts of mischief. 

“What do you want?” Cassandra asked. 

Her words sounded harsh. Cassandra braced herself for Varric’s inevitable snide retort. Instead, he exhaled heavily and then offered her a sheepish grin. 

“Checking in on my favourite Chantry thug,” he said, diluting his words with a cheeky grin.

Cassandra rolled her eyes. Crossing her arms over her chest, she studied Varric’s face. 

“I am fine,” she said, intending that to be the end of it. “Today has been full of little frustrations.” 

“Yours truly included in that list,” Varric quipped. 

Cassandra conceded the point. 

“I am not normally so-” she spread her hands wide. 

“Scatterbrained? Clumsy? Awkward?” Varric supplied. “Ungainly? Inelegant?”

“That is _enough_ , Varric. Did you come here only to prod at me?” Cassandra snapped. 

Varric’s smile vanished. Cassandra fancied she saw a flush rise on his cheeks. 

“I didn’t,” he said. At Cassandra’s incredulous look, his grin made a self effacing return. “Alright, I’m doing a shit job of this. Try again?”

He smiled up at her with such earnestness that Cassandra sighed, and relented. 

“What do you want, Varric?” she asked again. 

There was a beat,a quick pause as Varric stared blankly at her. 

“Dinner,” he said. 

“The kitchens are over there.” Cassandra jerked her thumb in their direction. 

Varric rallied himself, drew himself up to his full height. 

“Have dinner with me,” he said. 

He looked too green to keep a glass of water down. Cassandra straightened her spine, and cast about for the right words. There was no way she’d consent to dinner with a man who looked like he’d sooner vomit. 

“I am not a monster, Varric,” which was not what she’d meant to say at all. Again.

“You aren’t,” he agreed, looking bemused. “I don’t make a habit of asking monsters out for dinner. Bad table manners.” 

Cassandra snorted. 

“The monsters have bad table manners?” she asked, unsure of why she bothered playing along.

“No, I do,” Varric said. 

Cassandra laughed. Varric looked up at her, softness in his eyes. Silence yawned between them. Cassandra licked her dry lips, and opened her mouth to tell Varric to leave. 

“Dinner?” she said instead. 

The greenish tint came back to Varric’s face, coupled with a strange intensity as his eyes locked onto hers, searching. 

“Traditionally the last meal of the day,” he said. 

Cassandra drew back, caught between desires. Varric’s smile quirked into wryness. 

“Well, if you’re not interested,” he said lightly, and made for the stairs. 

Cassandra watched him go, watched as he put one foot on the first step down and not look back. She stayed stuck in her spot, somehow frozen there while Varric descended to the next step. 

“Wait!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Fic a Day in May challenge!
> 
> (also based a little on my own weird run of clumsiness today)


	77. On Reflection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric has something to say.

“I love you,” Varric said. His reflection grimaced back at him. 

“I’m in love with you,” he tried again. His reflection looked embarrassed for him, a light flush riding his cheekbones.

“Ridiculous,” Varric mumbled.

Leaning forward, Varric crooked up his mouth, and took stock of himself in the mirror. He smoothed his fingers over the newest grey streak at his temple. The laugh lines at the corners of his eyes that seemed a bit deeper. His fingers traced the sharp line of his nose, break and all. Then the line of his jaw, the five o’clock shadow there hours early. Grey glinted there, too.

“Getting old, Tethras,” he said to the mirror, which didn’t argue.

His back was still straight, and his shoulders still square, though. While he’d certainly thickened around the middle since his twenties, it wasn’t a bad thing. Cassandra hadn’t ever given him reason to believe she didn’t like him. Physically, anyways. She didn’t seem to mind his height, either. 

Varric stood straighter. 

She liked his arms, of that he was sure. The last time he’d worn sleeveless armour, Cassandra had walked into a tree. Much to the tree’s deficit, Varric recalled, smiling. She’d blushed, waved off the Inquisitor’s worried fluttering, and given Varric a truly dirty look while insisting that it was only a _sapling_. Maker help him but he’d felt a sudden rush of sympathy for the tree. Both of them had been bowled over by Cassandra. 

Varric met his own eyes in the mirror again. Dragged his fingers through his loose hair. Closed his eyes, and thought about Cassandra.

Cassandra training in the courtyard, her sword and armour flashing in the bright light. The ease with which she moved, her dedication to her cause. Her determination to never be caught unprepared again. The way she hunched over her books, eyes fixed on the page, the whole world shrunk down to her and the written word. Her smile, when he’d presented her with that copy of _Swords and Shields_. Her face when Chancellor Roderick called her a thug. Righteous anger and strength, and her willingness to use both to _help_. Her fingers, light on his shoulder the night Haven fell and they’d thought the Inquisitor lost. The look of weary, joyous exaltation on her face when Corypheus fell, when everything was truly _over._

“I love you,” Varric tried again. It sounded better this time, richer. Truer. It sounded like something he could actually _say_ to Cassandra. 

Cassandra, who would be arriving in Kirkwall that day, so they could travel together to the Divine Council. 

Maker he had to be seven kinds of stupid.

Varric opened his eyes again. 

“One dwarf, slightly used,” he said to his mirror with cheerfulness that fell flat. 

Turning his back on the traitorous bit of glass, Varric picked his tunic up from the bed, and shrugged it on. It was one of the few that survived from Skyhold. Bran, the traitor, had given the rest to the staff for use as rags. Varric had simply ordered a dozen of the same from his tailor. One had survived the purge (by dint of it being worn at the time), and Varric could swear that mountain air and the scent of woodsmoke still clung to the damn thing. Something he’d never thought to feel nostalgic about. Cold air and a fireplace that smoked for the first two months until someone had figured out how to fix it. Pilgrims constantly underfoot. The constant pressing fear of death and failure, should the Inquisitor not equal Corypheus. The good old days. 

Varric finished buttoning his tunic, and belted his sash. The mirror showed...well, the same man, just more clothed this time. At least Cassandra wouldn’t be surprised by any sudden changes. He was still the same dwarf he’d always been. More or less.

Commotion rose up from the courtyard of the Viscount’s Residence. 

“Shit,” Varric muttered, his stomach flip flopping. 

“Viscount Tethras, Seeker Pentaghast has arrived,” a voice called from the other side of his door. 

“Thanks, Thomas,” Varric called back. 

He took one last look in the mirror, tied his hair back, and wondered if he was going to throw up on Cassandra’s boots. 

Probably. 

***

He’s definitely going to throw up on Cassandra’s boots.

She looks _amazing._ Varric’s not sure how he could ever have thought Cassandra was anything other than stunning. She is. 

She strode into his personal parlour, frowning. One gloved hand brushed her bangs out of her face, and Varric almost swooned. It’s a good thing there’s no one present but the two of them, because he’s making an utter fool of himself without even saying a word. A first, surely. 

“Varric,” Cassandra said, noticing him at the last. 

A slow smile bloomed across her face. 

He loved that one best, Varric decided. He wondered if she feels what he did, if it felt like homecoming to be in the same room again. 

“Seeker,” Varric said, rather than voice all the nonsense he was thinking of. “Make it through the city without punching anyone?”

Cassandra huffed. “It was a near thing.” 

She flung herself into an armchair, and favoured him with a soft look. 

“It is good to see you again, Varric,” she said. 

There was a pause, as if one of them were meant to be doing something. 

“You too,” he replied. “Drink?” 

Cassandra groaned, behind him. “Yes, please. It is so _dry_ out. I would drink the Waking Sea, if it were offered.” 

Varric snorted. “Sounds like a good name for a mixed drink.” 

“Eugh. Far too salty,” Cassandra said. “Thank you, Varric.” 

Doing his best not to savour the feeling of her fingers grazing his, Varric sat down in the armchair opposite her with his own glass. He stared down at the amber liquid in his glass, and looked up to meet Cassandra’s contemplative gaze. 

She tore her eyes away, a touch of colour rising on her cheeks. 

_Oh_.

Varric’s heart thrilled. 

Right. He was an adult. Viscount of Kirkwall, deshyr, rogue, author… He could hold a conversation with an old adventuring companion. A friend. The woman he- 

Fuck. 

The words hovered on his tongue. 

“Varric?” Cassandra tilted her head, brows furrowed. “Are you alright?”

“Always, Seeker,” Varric said, before steering the conversation towards safe, banal things like how her trip had gone. 

Pathetic, Tethras. 

***

His reflection looked at him with utter disgust. 

Varric pulled the tie out of his hair and tossed it somewhere behind him, shed his tunic and let it fall where it would. His boots dropped carelessly onto the floor. Dinner, dessert, and drinks, and he hadn’t been able to say it. The words had stuck on his tongue alongside his carefully planned dinner. Cassandra hadn’t spoken much throughout. 

A chill raked down his spine. 

It was possible she knew. Cassandra was a Seeker of Truth, perhaps she’d seen his changed behaviour and realized what it meant. She was a beautiful woman, it wasn’t impossible that she could tell when some asshole started panting after her. 

Dinner sat heavy in Varric’s gut. 

It was a foolish fantasy, imagining he could tell Cassandra how he felt and what...it would just work? She’d magically love him back, and they’d kiss passionately, like the protagonists in his books?

Maybe he hadn’t written enough tragedies. 

***

The next day dawned far too early, and Cassandra was conspicuously absent. 

“Milady Seeker has gone out for the morning, sir.” 

“Thank you, Thomas,” Varric said wearily, and waved the young under butler footman whatever away.

That was well and good. The Seeker was likely off doing...Seeker stuff. He’d see her later. Varric settled in at his desk to give Bran a heart attack and maybe get some paperwork done. 

After blotting several pages which Bran assured him were of the utmost importance (if they were so damned important, why hadn’t anyone made _copies?_ ), Varric found himself rousted out of his own office. A reprieve he was in no mood to enjoy. Cassandra hadn’t yet returned, and there was still the question of whether he ought to tell her how he felt. Experience told him to squash it, to bury the words he wanted to shout out, and ignore them until his equilibrium returned. His heart…

Varric placed a palm over that malfunctioning organ. 

Fresh air. That was what he needed. There was a balcony jutting out from the second-floor parlour he’d claimed. He could drink and look out over his city. Maybe get some writing done, and absolutely not think about Cass- the Seeker. It was a perfect plan.

Of course, that was the problem with perfect plans was that they never seemed to survive reality. Varric pushed open the wide Orlesian doors that lead out from his parlour to the balcony and came close to tripping over Cassandra. 

They stared at each other, until Varric managed to find his tongue. 

“Thought you’d left,” he said. 

Cassandra frowned. 

“I returned,” she said. 

“I can see that, Seeker. You’re too solid to be a phantom.” Varric rubbed his nose where Cassandra’s elbow had caught it.

“I apologize,” she said stiffly. 

“S’alright, Seeker. No harm done,” Varric said. 

Cassandra peered down at him, reached out a hand as if she meant to touch him. Varric held his breath. Cassandra dropped her hand back down to her side. 

“Varric-” 

“Cassandra-” 

They traded bemused stares. 

Cassandra gnawed on her lower lip. 

“Varric I have not been honest with you,” she said, in a rush. 

Varric blinked up at her. 

“You haven’t?” he asked, heart crumbling down towards his toes. 

“No I- I allowed us to… Maker forgive me Varric I am _sorry._ I know we are… I am not your favourite person, but we have. We have become friends, haven’t we?” she asked, looking truly miserable. 

“Course,” Varric choked on the single word. 

“I am not satisfied with- I do not wish to be- I am not _pretty_ , nor am I a dwarf. I am bad tempered and rash, and I _love_ you,” Cassandra blurted out. “I am sorry, I do not… I do not expect you to return my feelings I only… I only wanted you to know.” 

Varric felt the world tilt askew. Cassandra looked down at him, her face contorted in unhappiness. 

It dawned on him that she expected to be let down. That she thought he wouldn’t want her, or her heart. 

“Seeker,” Varric croaked. 

She moved towards the doors. Varric snagged her arm, and pulled. 

Cassandra’s mouth was soft, a little slick from the balm she hadn’t yet chewed off. She leaned into his kiss, bruising and perfect. 

Varric broke the kiss. 

“You’re my favourite person,” he murmured, before he kissed her again. 

Cassandra sighed. 

“You are _fantastically_ hot,” he said, kissing her nose. 

Cassandra laughed. 

“Not being a dwarf is a fucking asset,” he added, dropping a kiss on her lips. 

Cassandra’s fingers wound around the back of his neck, cupping the back of his head as she kissed him senseless. Varric’s hands floundered at his sides, before he slid them around her waist. 

“You’re passionate, not bad-tempered,” he gasped out when she finally let him up for air. “And you shouldn’t be sorry, Seeker.” 

“No?” Cassandra murmured.

“No, because I love you too. As it happens,” Varric said. 

“Hurrah!”

Varric jumped, and sent Cassandra a sheepish look. 

“What the hell..?”

She chanced a look over the balcony’s edge, and groaned.

“We were perhaps not cautious in choosing a location, love,” she said. 

The courtyard below them was full of Varric’s household staff, from the butler down to the scullery maids. 

Varric cursed a blue streak, his ears burning. Cassandra laughed, and chanced an awkward wave at the spectators. 

“Sorry, Seeker,” he said under his breath. 

Cassandra slipped her hand into his, and squeezed. The smile she blessed him with was more radiant than the stars, warmer than the sun. 

“I am not ashamed, Varric,” she said. 

Her expression clouded. 

“Unless you…” she trailed off. 

“Not for a second,” Varric said, and kissed her again. “I love you.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For an anon on tumblr, for the prompt "loud so everyone can hear" (the how you say i love you meme), and filled for the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	78. Proposals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which nothing terrible at all happens

Cassandra smooths the fabric of her dress, and imagines that her hands are Varric’s. She skates her palms down her sides, revelling in the sensation. The thought of his hands, barred from her skin only by a delicate layer of cloth is- 

Cassandra examines her flushed cheeks in the mirror.

Exhilarating. 

Cassandra tilts her chin up, and surveys herself. Vivienne’s seamstress was correct in many things, from the colour to the cut of this dress. Much has changed in women’s fashion since she was a girl, Cassandra concedes. For the better, mostly. Her dress is a cascade of fine burgundy silk that pools around her feet, and whispers when she moves. It is the most luxurious item she’s owned since joining the Seekers. 

She does not look at all herself, the mirror tells her. Where is her gambeson? Her armour? The much mended leather breeches, supple with age and wear? What happened to the woman who swore never again to wear a dress?

Cassandra meets her own gaze, unflinching. She is not the same girl who made that vow, nor is she the same woman who began the Inquisition in a blaze of righteous fury. She is a woman who chooses this dress, to wear for her own pleasure, and for the man she has chosen. 

Perhaps, Cassandra thinks, it was always about choice. 

The door to their chamber creaks open. Varric’s breath catches in his throat, audible even where Cassandra is standing. A sudden thrum of nervousness buzzes through her body, her stomach clenching like a fist. Cassandra turns, carefulness making her feel rigid. Her dress swirls around her, sensuous against bare skin. 

Varric gawks at her. His eyes are wide and round as saucers, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. 

Fear grips Cassandra like a vise. Perhaps she does look foolish. A lumbering bear in mock finery. 

“Holy Andraste,” Varric says. He shuts the door behind himself, carelessly letting it slam. 

He takes one step forward, then a second, and before Cassandra can blink his hands are running with eager glee across her silk-swathed body. 

“Do you…” Cassandra clears her throat, and continues in a stronger voice. “Do you like it?”

Varric lifts his head, looking up at her from between her breasts with eyes that scald. His breath burns her skin through the thin barrier of silk. 

“Do I like it?” he asks. 

His hands slide from her back all the way down to her ass, her thighs, then back up. 

Cassandra shivers. 

“Do not play games, Varric,” she says, sounding sterner than she’d wish, despite her breathlessness. 

“You are _gorgeous_ ,” he mutters, nuzzling against her breasts. “No matter what you are or aren’t wearing.” 

Cassandra hums, threading her fingers through his hair. One of Varric’s hands cups her breast. He kisses the curve of it, thumb brushing over her nipple.

“Do you need me to tell you?” Varric asks.

Cassandra loops her arms around his shoulders. A glib response is on the tip of her tongue. 

“I do,” she says instead. 

Varric grins up at her, crooked and excited. 

“Cassandra,” he says, his voice caressing her name. “You turn me on just by breathing in the same room as me.” 

“Oh?” Cassandra says. 

Varric untangles himself from her arms, and steps back to study her. His hands hold hers, thick fingers trembling ever so slightly.

“You take my breath away,” he says. “Not kidding when I said I love a woman who could kick my ass. Every inch of you is…” 

Varric trails off, devouring her with his eyes. 

“You’re strong, and capable, and Maker when you look at me…” Varric blushes, even to the tips of his ears. “When you _smile_ at me, I’d do anything to see it again, to keep you looking at me like that.” 

“Varric-” Cassandra tries.

“I want to make you happy,” he says, gruffly. 

“Fool,” Cassandra says. “You do make me happy.”

Varric offers her a wolfish grin. 

“I could make you happier,” he suggests. 

“Could you?” Cassandra drawls. “How?”

Varric drops one of her hands, and fishes around in the pockets of his breeches. 

“Marry me?” he says. “I uh. I’d kneel but ...short enough already, yeah?”

Cassandra barks out a laugh, then claps both hands over her mouth. 

“You aren’t...you aren’t _serious_ ,” she says. “You can’t be.” 

She wrenches her free hand out of Varric’s grasp and staggers away. Something tears as she steps on the hem of her dress. Varric looks gutted, she notes with a strange detachment. A thin band of twining gold glints, held between his fingers. 

Cassandra’s stomach lurches. 

Varric’s lips crimp into a parody of a smile. The gold band disappears into a pocket. 

“Not something I’d joke about, Seeker.” He took a step back. Then another. 

He is _leaving_ , Cassandra realizes. Her dress tangles around her legs and produces yet another awful ripping noise. The long tear reaches from her ankle to her hip. Frustration burns in her gorge. Followed swiftly by humiliation and the upsetting knowledge that she’s going to cry, thus convincing Varric she is mad and he has erred in wanting to marry her. Perhaps she _is_ unbalanced. Disbelief is not the traditional response to a proposal. 

Their door shuts, so softly Cassandra thinks she’s imagined it. Until she realizes that there is no one in their room but her.

“Oh,” Cassandra manages, and dissolves into a crying fit.

***

Cassandra smashes a training dummy with somewhat less than her usual satisfaction. A great deal less than. The sun is too bright, the air too sharp. Her heart too full of regret. Varric lopes across the courtyard, offering cheerful sounding greetings to the people who cross his path. They do not acknowledge one another. Cassandra turns back to her training, for another failed attempt at distracting herself. Varric ducks into the tavern, carrying part of her with him. 

They should talk, Cassandra knows. There is so much that needs to be… if not fixed, at least clarified. 

_Marry me_

Cassandra oversteps, her momentum rushing her past the dummy. She sheathes her sword, and sweeps her sweaty bangs off her forehead. The courtyard is empty, bereft of activity with the Inquisitor away in the Graves. There is nothing to distract her from her thoughts. 

***

The opportunity to speak with Varric does not come for another day. Cassandra’s heart threatens to choke her, too heavy to bear and yet she must do so, must breathe past the ache, and continue on. In the time between Varric’s ill fated proposal and the moment he sidles into their room again, Cassandra ages decades. 

When Varric sees her, standing in the center of what was their bedroom, he flinches. 

“Buttercup…” he mutters like a curse. 

Cassandra resolves to pledge herself to Sera’s service in repayment for this favour. 

Varric raises eyes shaded with wariness to hers. 

Cassandra’s mind, previously so full of speeches and apologies and grand gestures, empties. 

She steps forward, hesitates, and stops short of Varric. 

“I am sorry. My love I am so sorry,” she blurts.

Varric looks up at her, his face a blank mask. Except for his eyes, which betray him. 

Cassandra takes a half step, wavers, and crumples. There is nothing in the bleakness of his gaze but a deep, aching pain. 

“I cannot fix this, can I?” Cassandra says, mostly to herself, to her hands loosely fallen into her lap. Tears sluice down her neck. “I want to.”

“What’s to fix? Thought marrying me was a _joke_ , Seeker,” Varric sneers. 

It would cut less if his voice weren’t as choked with emotion as hers. Even that effort at cruelty misses its mark.

“Can we talk,” Cassandra says. “I am tired of being unhappy.” 

She is exhausted, weary beyond measure. Varric’s absence in her life is a gaping wound. 

“Yeah, we can talk,” he says, after a long quiet.

Cassandra unfolds herself from the floor, grasping Varric’s proffered hand. Letting go of him proves to be something she is not capable of, not after so long a trial. Varric follows her to the small couch by the fireplace. 

“I have been… proposed to since I was a girl,” Cassandra says, once they have settled in. 

Varric snorts. 

Cassandra glares at him. “I am not _bragging_ , dwarf. I am trying to explain!”

Varric presses his lips flat. His fingers pick at loose threads on the couch’s arm. 

“They never meant it,” she says. “They did not want to marry me, they wanted… wealth, my name. The pride of owning a Pentaghast, I suppose. Like a finely bred horse.” 

Cassandra smiles without humour. 

“You knew… how I felt,” Varric says. 

Cassandra’s throat closes up at the past tense. Varric doesn’t meet her eyes. 

“I did,” she says carefully. “But I- I never expected that you would wish to marry me.” 

“Wild idea right?” Varric drawls. 

Cassandra sighs. 

“That someone would want to spend the rest of their life with me? For my own sake, and not… blood or politics or wealth?” she asks. 

Varric growls. His eyes finally meet hers, and they _blaze_. 

“Why _else_ would I have asked you to marry me?” he demands. 

The brutal outrage that animated him ebbs away, and Varric sags back into the corner of the couch. 

“Thanks for shooting me down, Seeker,” he continues in a flat voice. “Last thing I wanted was to marry someone who didn’t love me back.” 

“I _do_ love you,” Cassandra says, pleads. 

Varric looks at her with tired eyes. “Not enough, Seeker.” 

This is devolving into farce. Into melodrama. Cassandra clenches her hands into fists. Her nails dig into the flesh of her palms. 

“I do,” she says in a low voice. “I am sorry, Varric. I acted poorly, and I would undo it if I could. I cannot. But if you would allow it, I would try to fix this. I would like to try again. I love you.” 

The last comes out in a quaking voice, but it is _truth_ , and it is all she has. 

Varric’s thumb brushes at her cheek. 

“You cried your makeup off,” he says, unsteadily. “There are...streaks.” 

Cassandra leans her face against the curve of his hand. Varric breathes in, out.

“I’m sorry,” he says. His voice hitches. “ _Cassandra_ I’m-” 

He moves, or perhaps she does, but it doesn’t matter. What does is that Varric’s arms encircle her waist, and her arms loop around his shoulders, and she does not ever want to be parted from him. Hot tears scald her neck, Varric’s face buried in the crook of her throat. Cassandra sniffles. 

“Varric?” she says in a voice that shakes. 

“Yeah?” he says. His voice is muffled by her body. 

“Marry me,” Cassandra says. 

“Though you’d never ask,” Varric says, wetly.

“You can refuse,” Cassandra says, stroking his hair. “It would be your right. But I love you, and I will for the rest of our lives, married or not.” 

Varric snuffles, and pulls away to look up at her. His eyes and face are red, his hair sticks up in tufts where her fingers have been. A small smile plays around his mouth.

“When you put it like that,” he teases. 

Cassandra shoves his shoulder. 

Varric flops down on her, bearing her back onto the couch. 

“Well?” Cassandra asks, breathless.

“Does that make me Messere Pentaghast?” Varric says to her collarbones. 

“ _Varric!_ ” Cassandra laughs.

“Yeah, I’ll marry you,” Varric says. 

Cassandra twines her hands around his back, gathering him close. 

“Good,” she says, planting a kiss on the top of his head. 

Varric props himself up on one elbow, his eyes shining with mirth.

"But I'm not taking your name," he adds, and she laughs again as he pulls her into a lingering kiss.

THE GODDAMN END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you V and Ruffles for smoothing out the rough patches!
> 
> Written for the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	79. Something Borrowed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra wears Varric's tunic

It is not her fault that Varric’s clothing is so much more comfortable than hers, Cassandra reasons. His tunics come from a tailor Varric refuses to name. Whether it’s out of fear Madame Vivienne will truly write the poor man a stern letter, or something more complicated, Cassandra isn’t sure. They are soft, in wool and silk and lightweight linen, suitable for any weather Varric might encounter throughout Thedas. Given his feelings on weather of any sort, it is not surprising that Varric is prepared for any eventuality. Cassandra’s tunics meanwhile were bought from the stores that would trade with the Inquisition in the days when no one knew whether they’d be tried for heresy or not. As such, they are no better than the average villager’s, with all the attendant inconveniences. 

Cassandra squirms, settling herself into Varric’s stolen tunic with the glee of someone indulging in a secret vice. If he did not want her to ... _appropriate_ his clothing, he ought not to have been so careless with it, she reasons. It is hers now, until Varric notices and reclaims it. But he is in the Emprise without her, and will be for eleven days, if Cassandra has calculated properly. She sighs, her shoulders slouching. It is a long time to be apart, when they may have so little time left. They draw ever closer to the final battle with Corypheus, if Solas is to be trusted. If the evidence of her own eyes is to be trusted. The battle at the Arbor Wilds promises to be a nasty, bloody affair. The Inquisitor is eager to go, to strike a blow against Corypheus and the Red Templars. Cassandra can’t tell if it is the foolishness of her youth, or if the Inquisitor is just tired of the constant strain, and willing to take any action there is, so long as it’s action. For herself, Cassandra would not mind something other than throwing themselves headlong against their enemy. A first, certainly. Her mouth crimps at that thought. Cassandra Pentaghast, not rushing headlong into the teeth of danger? Perhaps she is ill. 

Varric’s tunic wraps around her, an empty embrace. It still carries the scent of him, some subtle Varric-ness that cannot be broken down into its respective odours, or identified further than _smells like Varric._

Cassandra catches herself smiling, nose tucked into the tunic’s collar.

No, she is not ill. Heartsick, but not ill. 

The upcoming battle frightens her more now, that there is so much to lose. It is not impossible that she or Varric might perish, as so many others have. Torn apart until the Maker sees fit to reunite them, and until then to live the intervening years always feeling that absence. Facing eleven wretched days without her lover, the thought of living decades without him is… not something she wishes to think on, this day. 

Cassandra picks her book up, puts it down. Trims the wick of her lantern, and lights it. Picks her book up again. She slides down in bed, Varric’s tunic rucking up around her torso, her book unopened and half tucked beneath the sheets. 

Years, without Varric. 

She would survive it, rebuilding just like she has done after the deaths of all her important people. It is melodramatic nonsense to think that she would not find a way to continue without him. 

What if she were the one to die? 

Cassandra offers her book an empty half smile. 

Varric has always been the more prosaic. Compartmentalized. He would cope, would carry on regardless, with only a new story to twist and perhaps a new name to lend a weapon in need. It would be a strange kind of immortality, Cassandra muses. 

It is foolishness, of course. Idle thoughts stemming from an idle imagination. Clearly she has not been training so hard as she could, if her thoughts could stray so easily down such a melancholy path. Cassandra drops her book on the bedside table, tired all at once. Eleven more days until Varric returns. Eleven days closer to the Arbor Wilds, to the climax of their story. Sleep drags at her eyelids. It is so much easier in the books, she thinks. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filled for the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	80. Isn't It Romantic?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by that DA2 gifset of Cassandra.

“It just sounds so…” the Seeker smiles, soft and dreamy. “Romantic.” 

Her voice caresses the word, savours it. She says “romantic” the way a man dying of thirst might say “water”. Amazing the way she can make him forget the armour, the knife in his book, the unspoken threat looming over him, Varric thinks. Over her too, now that he’s thinking of it. What happens to Seekers who fail in their duty? 

She isn’t one of his. He has to remember that. Varric meets the Seeker’s eyes, intending to draw her back into the story he’s weaving. 

She has beautiful eyes. 

Varric very carefully does not react to that thought. Objectively, the Seeker is a very pretty woman. It isn’t unnatural that he’d notice. Strange what the brain chooses to focus on when it’s under stress. He settles back into his chair. Sprawls, really. It’s the sort of pose that would be more complete with a bottle or a tankard dangling from his fingers, and a comely barmaid perched on the arm of his chair. Maybe two barmaids. Varric slips into the persona of his book cover alter ego, and takes a breath. 

Cassandra looks at him with those sparkling eyes, light and wistful even though her mouth’s primmed up again. 

Something in the region of Varric’s heart shifts. It’s not as fun, lying to this woman. He could lie to Seeker Pentaghast, to the Right Hand of the Divine. Spinning tales to this new person, who listens to his stories starry-eyed… doesn’t feel quite right. She reminds him of Merrill, in a way. That same hopeful streak despite the world’s hardness. What would it be like to look out at the world with those eyes? Or to have someone look at him that way. As if he were a knight in the old myths, capable of great and noble deeds.

Varric snorts. Ser Tethras, ha.

Cassand- _Seeker Pentaghast_ narrows her eyes at him. Any scrap of gentleness is brought back under control. She’s the Chantry’s perfect soldier, again.

He can deal with that. 

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were developing a little crush,” Varric teases.

Cass- damn but it’s hard to keep calling her _Seeker_. Varric reminds himself they’re almost done, that she’ll be gone in the next few minutes, if his story was good enough. Then he won’t have to worry about what to call her, whether he’ll slip up, and call her by her name and not her title.

The Seeker glowers at him, and Varric relaxes. They’re back on safe ground, Seeker versus rogue. He can work with that. 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she scolds.

Varric refrains from elaborating on the more ridiculous, implausible thoughts that’ve crossed his mind today. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you v and ruffles for all the handholding and good advice <3
> 
> filled for the Fic a Day in May challenge


	81. Dragon of Nevarra

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric goes to find the truth behind an urban legend. Inspired partly by the movie Penelope.

“It’s a myth,” Varric had said. “The Dragon of Nevarra? Bullshit, and I’d know.” 

“Can’t bullshit a bullshitter?” Hawke said, doodling patterns in the condensation on the bartop.

“Not unless you’re really full of shit,” Varric told her. 

“No shit,” Hawke said in a neutral voice Varric knew to be trouble. 

That conversation replays itself in Varric’s head as he stares up at the figure looming above him. He doesn’t need the torch lying smoking at his feet anymore. The woman’s features are seared into his eyelids. She bends, picks the fallen torch up in one gloved hand. The flickering flame gutters, casts weak light in a thin yellow circle. Looking up at her, half obscured by shadows, Varric almost thinks he’s made a mistake. Then she brings the torch up to head height. 

“Well, shit,” Varric says. 

“Come to gawk?” the woman asks. She sounds angry, and tired. “Look your fill and go.” 

Varric gets to his feet, knees creaking. Dusts the seat of his breeches off, then dusts his hands on his breeches. The Dragon of Nevarra looks on this with bemusement. It’s an odd look on her but then, most things probably are. 

“Varric Tethras,” he says, offering her his hand. 

She stares at it. Lowers the torch. Varric winces against the sudden light. 

“The author?” she says. “Out here? Do not be absurd.” 

Varric bristles. “Don’t let the author portraits fool you. I’m much handsomer in real life.” 

The Dragon snorts. There’s no fire. Not even a little smoke. Just a woman scoffing at him. Varric’s reminded of Hawke, suddenly.

“Then tell me, why was Hard in Hightown 2 so much wor-”

“It was a _fake_ ,” Varric seethes. “Don’t tell me you fell for what that two bit hack was selling!”

There’s a pause that’s distinctly sheepish-sounding. Varric groans. 

“It was marketed as a sequel!” the Dragon retorts. 

Varric squints up at her. 

“Don’t believe everything you read,” he says. “So are you gonna introduce yourself to me or eat me or what?”

“ _Eat_ you!?” she squawks.

She sounds scandalized at the prospect. Varric relaxes just a bit. The absolute horror in her voice is kind of funny, considering the other rumours that surround the Dragon of Nevarra. Varric wonders if she knows that the mothers of Kirkwall terrify their children with the hideous fate that awaits them at the hands of the Dragon of Nevarra if they disobey. Standing face to face with the myth herself, Varric feels a bit ashamed for any embroidering of the truth he’s engaged in regarding the Dragon. She’s just a woman. 

A woman with scales and fangs, and a dragon’s snub snout.

“I have it on good authority that I am _delectable_ ,” Varric says with a sniff. 

There's a garbled noise that sounds supsiciously like someone smothering a laugh. A gloved hand breaks into the glowing circle of torchlight. Varric stares at it for a moment, follows the heavy line of her arm up to the shoulder, to warm brown eyes. They’re the only unaltered part of the woman’s face, so far as Varric can tell. 

“Cassandra Pentaghast,” she says. 

“Varric Tethras,” he replies, reaching out to shake her hand. 

Cassandra bares her fangs in what Varric interprets (after input from his fight or flight response) as a smile. 

“You are really the author?” she asks, again. 

There’s a note of hope in her voice that is- well, a bit sad. Imagine hoping to meet _him_. 

“In the flesh,” Varric says. He smiles. “You’re a fan?”

“I have...heard of you,” Cassandra says. “Who has not? Why are you here?”

Varric gestures around them, at the crumbling old fort in the Hinterlands where Cassandra’s made camp. “Came to see the sights.” 

Not the correct choice of words, he realizes too late. Not when you’re in the presence of a _sight_. Cassandra stiffens, draws back from him. Her hand rests on the hilt of her sword. The shining points on her gloves are talons, Varric notes. They jab through the leather in wicked looking curves. 

“I’m writing a book,” Varric says. 

Even in the evening gloom, it’s easy to see Cassandra perk back up at that, her interest hopefully supplanting her annoyance at Varric’s thoughtless remark. 

“About what?” she asks, striving for placid disinterest, and failing.

“You,” Varric says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	82. When Schleets Attack

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric tells Cassandra the real story behind his beardlessness.

Cassandra never asks him why he doesn't wear a beard. It's refreshing, but a little weird. Everyone asks. Even Broody asked. Varric waits, figures maybe it's just that she's trying to be polite. Maybe she suspects he has some dwarven disease that makes him beardless. Maybe she thinks its a weird dwarf culture thing and he can’t grow a beard until he’s an adult or some shit. Since he is an adult, Varric decides to take matters into his own hands. 

"Varric why don't you have a beard?" Cassandra asks, in the tone of someone humouring a friend.

Adopting the most pained expression he can muster, Varric looks off into the distance. 

"There was a terrible accident, when I was a teenager," he says. “There’s a reason I hate camping, Seeker.”

Cassandra knows him too well by now to give that any credence, but her eyes widen anyways. 

"What happened?" she asks, dutifully. 

Varric looks away, as if he's too overcome to make eye contact. In reality, he can't keep the stupid grin off his face, and if Cassandra sees him smiling...

"The schleets," he says, in a tone of horror. “They came for us in the night. Bartrand managed to fight them off, but it was too late for me…”

"The schleets?" Cassandra repeats.

There's a beat, and she swats his shoulder. 

"They don't exist!" she exclaims. "I do not know _why_ I am surprised that you would conjure up such an absurd story..."

Varric jostles her back, not bothering to hide the smile on his face this time. It's nice to sit outside and shoot the breeze with the Seeker, he realizes.

Cassandra rolls her eyes at him, and bumps her shoulder against his. Companionable silence restored, Varric’s not sure why he wants to tell her the real story. Such as it is.

"Centuries of tradition," Varric says. 

He scratches at his jaw, feeling the rough scrape of his stubble beneath his fingertips. He could use a shave. Maybe tomorrow. 

"Schleets?" Cassandra asks. Her voice makes the name sound even more ridiculous, which is a feat in itself. 

"Nah, the beards," Varric says. "Proper dwarves have 'em and it's all for some tradition no one remembers. Don't need one to be a dwarf. And they _itch_." 

Cassandra makes a noise Varric decides is one of assent. Her hand comes up to touch the braid circling her head. There's a story there, Varric's sure. He’ll ask at another time. Right now, it is quiet in the courtyard, and his tankard is full. It’s a good evening.

He settles back against the bench, to watch the sunset with Cassandra at his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For uchidachi who requested it, and v who revealed to me the existence of schleets. Bless. 
> 
> Filled for the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	83. Paths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra thinks about her life.

She wants to live. Maker’s Grace, is it not enough that she has, that she has done things few others might have achieved, that she does live when others do not?

Cassandra punches the training dummy. Her arms ache. 

It is not enough. She does not want to just live, always in the shadow of her duty. 

Another blow lands against the dummy’s wooden chest. Sweat rolls down Cassandra’s shoulders. 

She is close to forty, now. She does not feel it most days, but she feels it more often than not. Near to forty, and only yesterday she stood bloody and victorious in front of Divine Beatrix. The years have spun away, since. Seeker, and Right Hand, and one time lover, and out of all those years only a handful of things she’d want to change.

Anthony.

Cassandra’s fist connects with the dummy’s straw gut. 

Justinia. 

The blade of her hand strikes the dummy’s throat. 

Galyan. 

Cassandra smashes her elbow into the dummy’s head. 

_Divine Victoria._

The blow she aims does not connect. It loses steam part way through. Cassandra drops her arms, and leans against the worn training dummy. Sweat streams off her forehead, drips from her eyelashes, her nose, her chin. 

When she was a girl, visions of justice, of righteous anger channelled into righteous action seemed the pinnacle of achievement. What more could she have dreamt of, at twenty when Divine Beatrix had given her purpose beyond her wildest imaginings? When she set her feet upon this path, she had not thought beyond the immediate future. She had concentrated on her duty, on doing as she was bid, in serving. Now, there are those who look to her, who wish for her service to continue, and isn’t that what she ought to desire? She is being offered the ability to do more with her life, to serve the people of Thedas. To bring much needed change. She could shape the world. 

How many times has she chafed beneath the command of others? 

Sunlight beats down on her back. Around her, all the people whose job it is to ensure the Inquisition runs smoothly towards its goals bustle about. So much effort by so many people, to bring about the merest hope of victory. 

Worrying about who might become Divine is fruitless. Perhaps the winner will be whichever woman still lives, should they be victorious over Corypheus and his forces. 

It is a bleak thought. Cassandra shakes it from her head. 

A cold flagon sears her side. 

“Ack!”

Cassandra _squeals_ , startled. 

Warm, rusty laughter rings out through the courtyard. Cassandra rescues the flagon from Varric’s wavering grip. He wipes tears from his eyes, the odd chuckle burbling out of him still. 

“Looked like you could use it,” he says, gasping. “Maker you jumped a _mile_ …” 

Cassandra takes a sip, rather than dignify this with a response.

Cider, sweet and crisp, with a hint of pear. 

Bryn brews it in the cellar, with some contraption Dagna created that makes the process less time intensive. 

It is Cassandra’s favourite drink. 

Almost worth forgiving Varric for making her produce such an undignified noise in _public_. She turns to scold him, and stops. Her hand grips the flagon’s handle tighter. 

Warm afternoon sunlight streams through the branches overhead, dappling him in light and shadow. Varric smiles up at her, the fine lines around his eyes and mouth crinkling. Another difference between them, Cassandra thinks. The lines on his face are the result of a thousand smiles, of laughter. Hers are marks of a life spent mired in seriousness, near constant tension. She has lived so long beneath the pressure that it is no longer noticeable. What would it be like, to live without that weight? Varric is not without his own burdens, his own struggles, and yet… it seems as though his life is more fully lived than hers. 

“Seeker?” Varric asks, interrupting her contemplation of him. 

Cassandra crooks her mouth up into a smile. “Thank you for the drink, Varric.” 

“Anytime,” Varric says. “You know how much I love it when you scre-” 

Cassandra kisses him silent. 

“You,” she says. “Are a menace.” 

Varric stares at her. His face is a picture, and Cassandra wishes for his skill with words, or Sera’s with drawing. It is a moment that ought to be commemorated for all time. He raises a hand to cup her jaw, tentative despite her public display.

“Isn’t…” he clears his throat. “Didn’t think future Divines were meant to-” 

“It is my life,” Cassandra says. “I will live it as I will.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filled for the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	84. It can't get worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric tempts fate

It is so cold, colder than Cassandra has ever been in her life. It is awful. The cold eats away at her until she, who has always prided herself on her fortitude, wants to weep. Beside her, Varric shifts. The movement allows a frigid tongue of air into their small shelter. A whimper breaks from Cassandra's lips. 

Arms encircle her. Varric presses himself closer, though such a thing is not possible. The warmth they can eke from one another is minimal, now. 

"Least things can't get worse," he rasps out. 

Cassandra looses a short sharp bark of laughter. Tears pool in her eyes, slide down her frozen cheeks in burning rivulets 

"You will jinx us," Cassandra says, burying her face in his hair. 

Varric squeezes her in response. Outside their flimsy tent, wind tears across the mountain. The tent seems to breathe, sides belling outwards with the influx of cold air. 

Cassandra wipes her stinging face with the back of her hand. Her fingers are clumsy, slow to respond. It is so cold.

Varric mumbles. 

"Mm?" Cassandra grunts. 

"Tired," Varric says, mashing his face into her shoulder. 

She is exhausted too. The icy mountain air steals her breath, her will, her hope. There is nothing left any more. She is too tired to care now. They have done what they could to save themselves, she and Varric. They tried. 

It is not so terrible, Cassandra thinks. She cannot feel the cold that cuts like a knife, just the persistent heaviness of her eyelids. It is quiet, on the mountain, far from the polluted him of red lyrium, or the clamour of battle. She will just sleep, will close her eyes and enjoy Varric's closeness. 

The blanket slips from Cassandra's shoulder, but she does not move to fix it. 

Wind rips at the canvas tent. It is quiet, on the mountain.  

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Ruffles, filled for the Fic a Day in May Challenge.


	85. Selfless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric does something thoughtless

Varric wakes, slowly. Mostly so his body can make sure he properly appreciates how much he fucking hurts. Everything throbs or stings or aches. Even his eyeballs. They feel the way a jar of pickled eggs look. When he finally gets his courage up and dares to open said eyes, Varric immediately regrets it. The Seeker's furious face swims into focus, and he's pretty sure she's about to finish what the behemoth started. Her face is pale with fury, her eyes glitter bright and sharp, but her lip is chewed raw, red and angry. Not from the fight, he’s pretty sure she didn’t take a single hit hard enough to ding her armour. 

He’d like to say something smart, just because he hates it when she looks like that. 

“Hnk.” 

Not exactly a witty repartee there. The Seeker’s strong hands grip his shoulders, and Varric finds himself pulled up into a sitting position, and a glass of water forced into his hand before he can blink. 

It tastes fantastic. Clear and cold, cutting through the fuzziness in his mouth.

“Do not _dare,_ ” the Seeker snarls at him. 

Varric closes his mouth. 

He’s not a stupid man, and unlike the Seeker he knows better than to poke a wounded bear. And ~~Cassan~~ the Seeker looks about ready to feed him to several bears. 

“Of all the foolhardy, stupid-” 

She throws herself out of her chair, and glares down at him. 

“Your recklessness could’ve _killed you_ ,” she bites out. 

Her hands flex, open and close like she’s wishing she could strangle him. 

“Next time I won’t save your life then,” Varric says. 

The Seeker’s face goes purple. 

“Save my life? You threw yourself in front of a behemoth you foolish-”

“If you’d been paying attention...!” 

Cassandra’s mouth snaps shut. Her shoulders stiffen, her chin tilts up, and if it weren’t Cassandra he’d swear she was trying not to cry.

“You are right,” she says. “If I had been more careful you would not have been put in danger.” 

Varric wants to hit himself.

“Seeker,” he says. “What the hell does it matter? I’m alive, you’re alive, it’s fine.”

“You nearly _died_ ,” Cassandra chokes out. 

Her voice shakes. 

“You- I _saw_ you. I saw the behemoth’s fist smash into you, and watched you crumple like a broken doll.” 

Her chin trembles, and her eyes glow fiercely. Her cheeks flush, and Varric’s certain now it’s only willpower keeping her from crying. 

Over him.

“You almost died, and it was my fault,” she says.

He’d swear she hates him in that moment. 

“Seeker-”

“Do _not_ ,” she says. 

“Cassandra-” 

“Don’t,” she barks out. 

“What the hell is the matter?” Varric snaps. “Let me apologize! It wasn’t your fault. At all. I made the choice, and I did it because-” 

He falters. 

Cassandra stands at the end of his bed, still as a statue. 

The air between them trembles with all the things he isn’t saying.

Cassandra exhales, a soft, sad sound. 

“You did it because it is in your nature,” she says. “You would do as much for any companion.”

She offers him a smile, and stands straighter. 

“I will tell the Inquisitor and Sera you are well. They were worried,” she says. “Everyone was. You should consider them before you decide to perform any more heroics.” 

“I love you.” 

Cassandra stumbles. 

Varric curses himself for ten kinds of stupid. 

“You do not.” 

Her voice is quiet, but firm. 

“I do.” 

She looks at him with eyes that don’t dare hope, and Varric regrets every bitter word he’d spoken to her. 

“I’m an idiot, but I’m not lying.”

He offers her a smile, a bare quirk of the lips all he can manage. 

“I saw the behemoth, and I couldn’t-” he says. “You would’ve been killed and I couldn’t let that happen.” 

Cassandra crosses the room in two long strides. Varric reaches out, catches hold of her hand. It’s freezing cold, and shaking. She watches their entwined fingers in a daze. 

“I love you. I couldn’t see you get hurt,” he says. 

“If you had died, I would never have known,” she says ferociously. “You would be _dead_ , and I would have always wondered if you felt as I did.” 

Her hand squeezes his tightly. 

Varric looks up at her, hope choking him. 

“I love you.” Cassandra’s voice wavers. There are dark circles bruised beneath her eyes. 

“You haven’t slept at all, have you?” Varric asks. 

She bristles at first, and then her shoulders slump. A rueful smile teases at her mouth. 

“No, I have not,” she admits. 

Varric yawns, only partly for show. The infirmary bed is wide, and comfortable, and he doesn’t take up too much of it. There’s no reason Cassandra shouldn’t take up the rest of it.

“C’mere then.” He shuffles to one side, and flings up the blanket they’d so kindly covered him with. 

Cassandra untangles their hands, and backs away. For a second, Varric’s sure he’s overstepped, that she’ll assume he means more than simply sleeping at her side. Not that he doesn’t intend for more, if she’s amenable later. And he’s no longer recovering from being smashed halfway across a forest. But she only shucks her boots, and places them neatly to a pile of other things- her gambeson and armour, Varric realizes, along with a stack of books. Cassandra sits, swings her long legs up and onto the bed. Her eyes are heavy, her movements slower. 

“You are infuriating,” she murmurs. 

“You still love me,” Varric points out. 

“I do,” Cassandra says, stifling a yawn. 

She snuggles down beneath the covers, and Varric slips his hand down to grab hers. 

“Sleep well, Seeker.” 

She mumbles something softly, eyes shut and mouth a little slack. In sleep, she curls closer to him. Varric falls back asleep watching her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't remember if this ever saw the light of day, so here we are for the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	86. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Varric and terms of endearment

“Varric,” Cassandra drags his name out, rolls it along her tongue. 

Beneath her, he shudders. 

“You are so good at this, Varric.”

His fingers dig into her thighs. She can feel him shake all the way through her body. Cassandra strokes his hair, presses her cunt against his mouth. 

“I love watching you,” she gasps out. 

Varric keens. Buries his face between her legs. One trembling hand tears itself away from her leg, and Cassandra groans, low and satisfied, as his fingers slip into her. 

“You’re so good, Varric. You’re mine, my love.” 

Fevered eyes meet hers, wide and desperate and barely focused. Cassandra grits her teeth, head lolling back against her chair. Her fingers tangle in Varric’s hair. 

His fingers curve into her. Warm lips close around her clit, and every muscle in Cassandra’s body clenches. Heels digging into Varric’s back, she grinds her hips against him. 

“Please, Varric you-” a quavering gasp rips itself from her throat. “You’re _mine_ , you’re beautiful. Perfect. Please, I need you, I _need you._ ”

Varric fucks her with his fingers, with his mouth, messy and inelegant and wonderful. He’s the only one who can do this for her, who can fuck her til she’s so wound up that coming is a relief, a release that leaves her wrung out and sobbing. 

“ _Yes._ ” 

His voice shocks her. Varric stares up, mouth and chin wet. His fingers plunge into her. 

“Tell me.” 

“You’re the only one. You’re so good, you’re amazing, Varric-” her voice breaks and Cassandra’s sure she can’t bear any more. “ _Please!_ ” 

The word tears out of her, half scream. 

Her hips stutter against his hand, cunt bearing down on Varric’s fingers. Cassandra’s release blazes through her, every muscle taut. Her slick cunt spasms, little involuntary flutters around his hand that bring her almost to swooning. 

Varric slumps against her, breathing hard as she shakes against him. 

“My love,” Cassandra murmurs sleepily. Her hands skate along his back. Varric shivers. 

Cassandra can feel the jackrabbit fast beat of his heart, the hot heaviness of his cock against her leg. Varric kneels at her feet, panting. 

“You have not come,” she says, the way one might remark on the weather. It is a tone she has stolen from Vivienne. 

Varric’s eyes lock onto hers. 

“You have been so good,” Cassandra continues. Her voice shakes a little. “Do you want to come?”

Varric’s lips part. His mouth is slick and red still, his hair wild. He draws in a sharp breath. His hands make an abortive movement towards his straining cock. 

“Seeker-” he rasps out. 

“Do you want to come?” Cassandra asks again. 

Tiredness bleeds away beneath Varric’s urgent gaze. Cassandra lolls back in her chair, sated and benevolent. She reaches out to cup his face, tracing his swollen mouth with her thumb. 

“Yes,” Varric exhales. “I want to come, Seeker, _please!”_

Cassandra pours herself out of her chair and into Varric’s lap. Her fingers spear through his hair, tilting his head up. Varric’s mouth opens beneath hers, and Cassandra kisses him as though she's trying to consume him. Their hips roll together, Varric’s cock slotted between her thighs. 

“Tell me what you want, my love. You have been so good, done so well,” Cassandra says, gasping. 

Varric’s mouth leaves a trail of red marks from her neck to her breast, stubble burn and love bites mixed together. 

“Do you want to fuck me?” Cassandra asks. 

Varric grunts, manages to shake his head no. 

Cassandra kisses him again. “What do you want, my darling?”

Varric trembles. His unsteady hands grab at her ass, grind her hips down along the length of his cock. 

“Talk,” he gasps out. “Tell me how-”

He looks up at her with wide, urgent eyes. There is something there Cassandra can't place, some feeling or emotion she could name if her whole being wasn't intent on the pleasure of being with Varric. 

“Tell you what, my love?” Cassandra asks. 

Varric’s hands clutch at her, his blunt fingernails scoring her skin. 

He looks _vulnerable_.

Cassandra wrenches herself off his lap. Varric hesitates, sprawled on the floor in a boneless heap. 

“On the bed,” she orders. 

Varric stands on legs that don't quite work right, staggers towards her bed and collapses onto it. 

“Lie back,” Cassandra says. 

Varric settles himself against the mound of pillows. 

“Seeker-” he says. 

Cassandra straddles his waist and rolls her hips. Varric’s hands snap to her ass, holding on for dear life. 

“You are mine,” Cassandra tells him. “My love.”

She leans forward and nuzzles into his neck, lets Varric rut against her. 

“You are perfect, exactly how you are,” she adds. “I would not want you any other way.”

Varric whines. His arms wrap around her, clamping her right to his chest. Cassandra can feel their hearts beating in sync. 

“Come for me, Varric,” Cassandra says. “Let go, my love.”

Varric stills. Trembles. 

“You are mine,” Cassandra says, leaning up to watch his face. 

“Yours,” Varric echoes. “ _Cassandra.”_

Agony breaks across Varric’s features. He comes with a groan, his head buried against Cassandra’s throat.

Cassandra slumps down. Laughs. They are both filthy, come and sweat and spit smeared across their bodies. 

“Y’r laughin’,” Varric mumbles. 

Cassandra can feel his absurd smile the same way she can feel her own. Joyful and helpless. 

“I am _happy,”_ she says. 

Rolling off him, Cassandra snuggles into Varric’s side, uncaring of the mess. Varric gropes for her hand, winds his fingers between hers. 

“Good,” he says. Kisses her fingertips. “That’s. Good.”

Cassandra kisses his shoulder. Exhaustion drags at her, combined with the warmth of Varric in her bed, she is almost asleep when Varric moves. 

“You can stay,” she says, words sleep slurred. “If you want.”

Varric pauses. Cassandra’s heart sinks. 

He drapes the blanket over both of them, takes his place beside her again. 

“You meant it, didn't you?” he says.

Cassandra hums her assent. “I say what I mean, Varric.” 

“So-” he starts. 

Propping herself up on one arm, Cassandra gives him a curious look. Varric’s mouth kicks up in one corner. 

“If you are asking if I love you,” Cassandra says. “I do.”

Varric blinks. 

“Then-” he says. 

“If you want me,” Cassandra says. 

“Maker’s ass,” Varric says, a laugh in his voice. “ _If._ ”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. Varric pulls her down to nestle against the furious heat of him. 

“Love you too, Seeker,” he murmurs. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> colormecosplay likes my smut, and this made v walk into a bin, so it's probably good. Dedicated to the two of them. Finished for the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	87. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric claws at his skin, at the shards of red that sprout from his mouth, his eyes wide with panic. Streaks of red stain his face, strips of skin peel away beneath his nails.

Varric claws at his skin, at the shards of red that sprout from his mouth, his eyes wide with panic. Streaks of red stain his face, strips of skin peel away beneath his nails. 

She has to get to him, but they are separated, the gap is too far and he is suffering alone, scared. She has to help him. 

Blood and lyrium burst from his chest. Gore spatters onto the ground below him and she is too late. She is too late and he is _dying_ , with his cloudy red gaze fixed on her, accusing. 

"Varric!" 

She fights, tries so hard to reach him but something holds her back, weighs her down. She slogs through waist deep muck, struggling, drowning, sputtering in the filth. Cassandra stretches out her hand, strains forward. Varric is so close, but she cannot touch him. She has to. Mud slips down her throat, clogs her eyes and ears and nose, choking her. 

Varric contorts, his heels drumming on the ground, smearing himself in blood and mud. His fingers dig into his throat. A horrible strangling gasp fills the air. Varric’s eyes bulge. Lyrium crystals protrude from his mouth. He is lost to her, as she is pulled back screaming into the darkness. It is her fault. Varric’s dead eyes condemn her.

Cassandra wakes with a shudder, gasps out a quiet breath. She is awake. It was a dream, only a nightmare, she tells herself. Nothing.

Her heart thunders in her chest, her eyes prickle with an uncomfortable heat. 

The forge is silent. Far too much so, and she is terribly alone.

Cassandra stares at the mural above her bedroll, wills her nerves to cease their jumping. 

She closes her eyes. 

Varric vomits up red lyrium. 

Cassandra rolls onto her side, eyes squeezed shut as she tries to think of anything other than the nightmare.

After a few fruitless moments, Cassandra sighs. Flinging off her sheets, she struggles quickly into a pair of leggings, forces her feet into boots, and clatters down the stairs before she can tell herself it's a stupid idea. It's still dark out, which is a relief. It means no one will see her hurried progress across the courtyard and up the stairs to the little apartment above the tavern.

Her fingers reach out, touch the solid door, and it occurs to her that she doesn't know whether the door will be unlocked or not. Which would make her whole foolish trip even more ridiculous. 

She almost hopes it will be locked. 

But the door must be kept open for Cullen's guards to patrol the walls, and the doorknob turns easily beneath her hand.

It means nothing. Perhaps Varric is not in his rooms. 

The snoring indicates otherwise. 

Slipping into the room, Cassandra shuts the door carefully behind her. Without the light from the parapets, it is pitch black and quiet. Varric snuffles in his sleep, the sheets rustle. Already, she feels calmer. Varric breathes in, breathes out, _breathes._

Cassandra hesitates, then takes one half step closer. Step by halting step she nears his bed. 

“Varric?” she says, voice low. Hoping not to wake him and hoping he wakes.

He does not move. 

She should leave. He will never know she was there, and that is for the best. But she does not want to return to her bedroll, to the solitude of the forge. The nightmares that have plagued her without end for weeks make her a coward. She does not leave. 

Cassandra’s fingers brush soft skin, the weal of a long healed scar. 

Varric sleeps without a shirt on. 

Not for the first time, Cassandra’s sure this was a terrible idea. But she shoves at Varric’s bare shoulder, anyways. 

“Varric!”

“C’sndra?”

Varric’s voice is rough from sleep. He props himself up on one elbow, and Cassandra doesn’t doubt he’s peering up at her in sleepy confusion. Now that he’s awake, everything she was about to say sounds absurd. 

“I-” 

“S’matter?” 

“I had a nightmare,” Cassandra says with as much dignity as she can. 

There’s a pregnant pause. She almost thinks Varric’s gone back to sleep, until he speaks again. 

“C’mere,” Varric mumbles.

He flings up the corner of his comforter, squirms back to allow Cassandra a little space. 

She hesitates. Decides she has done so more than she likes, tonight.

Cassandra kicks off her boots, wriggles out of the loose leggings, and sits on the edge of Varric’s bed. It smells like him, like sleep. 

Varric’s fingers fumble for hers. 

“Promise I’ll be a gentleman,” he says. 

Cassandra laughs. Varric smiles up at her, sleepy and fond.

She lies down, settles herself properly as Varric adjusts the covers. He rolls over, and Cassandra curls her body around his. 

“Goodnight, Varric.” 

He mumbles, and falls asleep holding her hand. 

Cassandra yawns, buries her face against Varric’s hair. Her eyes feel heavy, the heat of Varric’s body soothes her jangling nerves. He breathes, soft and even, and Cassandra drifts into dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> filled for the fic a day in may challenge!


	88. For Better or Worse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric falls ill in the Fallow Mire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fic contains mention of vomiting, stomach upsets. Sorry :( 
> 
> Written for the Fic a Day in May challenge. 
> 
> It's a bit late, whoops.

They have traded the sweltering sticky heat of the Forbidden Oasis for the clammy stench of the Fallow Mire. Perhaps it is the constant downpour and the chill air, perhaps it’s because Varric is always chest deep in corpsey water. Maybe it’s just that the Fallow fucking Mire knows he hates it, and is exacting revenge. Varric wouldn’t hesitate to attribute the place with some sort of malignant intelligence. Nowhere is so goddamn awful by accident. Their party sloshes through yet another stagnant pool crusted with Maker knows what and filmed with a scummy green algae that redefines “repellant”. The only minor mercy is that this particular disgusting body of water doesn’t have any bodies in it. If it does, they’ve at least been so kind as to not go wandering about trying to eat people. It’s the little things you have to be thankful for. 

“Just a little further,” the Inquisitor says. He doesn’t sound as perky as he had in the morning, or even twenty minutes ago. 

Cassandra grunts. The rain’s washed most of her eye makeup down her face. She looks like a damp, pissed off raccoon. It’s not endearing at all, Varric reminds himself. 

Varric’s stomach roils, distracting him from the prospect of Cassandra being adorable. Unease fills him. It is too hot in the Fallow Mire and no one else seems to notice. They slog through more swamp, over a small bit of swamp pretending to be dry land, and through more swamp. Varric plucks a diseased lily pad out of his tunic. It is so cold, wading through the freezing water. His guts churn, rumbling wetly. Varric shivers. 

“Varric?” Cassandra’s voice cuts through the fog. “Inquisitor!” 

She sounds worried. Varric wonders what rotten thing Cheery’s got himself tangled in now, to put that much concern in Cassandra’s voice. 

Wet leather touches his face. Cassandra’s hand. Varric wants to lean into it. Or vomit. 

He vomits. 

Bile and every meal he’s eaten in the last forty-odd years lurches out of him to splatter in the now even more disgusting swamp. Cassandra stares down at him in bemusement as his lunch floats away from them. Varric spares some of the attention currently being devoted to feeling like shit to feel hotly embarrassed. He heaves again. 

“Maker, he looks like the hind end of a druffalo,” Cheery says. 

“Good bedside manner, Cheery,” Varric bites out. He spits out a chunk of something only the Maker himself could identify. “Surprised you’re not a healer.”

Speaking hurts. His throat burns, his mouth tastes like rancid nug’s feet that’ve been pickled. His stomach gurgles ominously. The sort of noise that would be accompanied by a scare chord if this were a pantomime. Varric’s guts clench. 

“He needs rest,” Cassandra says. “The camp is not far…”

Cheery bends to look Varric in the eye. “We could carry him,” he says, displaying truly abysmal problem solving skills. “Or you could, Seeker. It would be very romantic.” 

Cassandra probably makes a disgusted noise at that. Varric’s too busy retching again. 

“Varric and I are not-” she says. 

“Yes, yes. Just because two people don’t like each other doesn’t mean they’re going to kiss,” Dorian says. “Varric’s said it so much I can quote it verbatim.”

He sloshes closer to Varric, keeping well clear of Varric’s former lunch.

“Not that you’d want to kiss him right now anyway,” Dorian adds, uncorking a potion. 

Varric takes it from him in a hand that quakes like an aspen leaf.

“Bottoms up,” he says.

The potion tastes brilliant. Clear and sort of citrusy, and nothing at all like vomit, which is nice. Varric wipes his mouth on his sleeve.

“How much longer to camp or should I develop gills?” is what he means to say. 

He doesn’t manage to get past “How” before discovering that healing potions aren’t so refreshing on the way back up.

“Distressing,” Dorian remarks. 

“Cassandra, help Varric to shore. Dorian and I are going to camp for the cart,” Cheery says. 

Cassandra’s firm grip closes around Varric’s upper arm. Varric lets her half drag him to the squishy shoreline, too occupied in trying to keep his stomach where it belongs. When they’re on what passes for dry land in the Fallow Mire, Varric wants to curl up in the dirt (mud), and die. His guts point out he’s not done suffering quite yet in the most humiliating way possible. Varric staggers with haste towards a stunted tree and the questionable cover of some shrubs. 

“Varric-” Cassandra says, her voice sharp. 

Varric shrugs off her hand. Clamping his arm around his cramping miserable guts, he shoots her a speaking look. “Oh,” Cassandra says, wincing in sympathy. 

She retreats to a safe distance, her back turned, while Varric bids farewell to whatever dignity he had left. 

When the Inquisitor and Dorian return with the cart, Varric doesn’t know. He wakes up in a warm tent in dry clothes, which is enough to bring a tear of relief to his eye. That relief is short lived. He’s too ambitious in trying to sit up, and his head tries to change places with his liver. Familiar hands shove a battered metal bowl under his chin. Varic grabs it, and the hands switch to holding his hair back as he gags and sputters, throat in flames and eyes watering. Varric spits weakly into the bowl, when he’s done with it. 

“Thanks,” he wheezes. 

Cassandra pats his back. It feels really good. Surprisingly good. Varric slumps down into his well padded bedroll. 

“Being ill is difficult enough,” Cassandra says in answer to his curious look. “It is worse when sleeping on hard ground.” 

She speaks with the wry weight of experience Varric doesn’t envy. 

“Sparkler bribe you with filthy Tevene romance novels?” Varric grates out. 

Cassandra blushes so rosily Varric expects her to combust. 

“No?” she says. “Why would he wish to bribe me?”

“To switch tents,” Varric clarifies. The extra blankets and pillows really do make a difference. He isn’t more comfortable, but he’s less wretched than he could be. “Didn’t peg you as the type to sit at a sickbed.” 

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “The Inquisitor believes nursing you through this will reveal to us both the true and previously hidden depths of our real feelings.” 

Varric sighs. 

“It is not very romantic,” Cassandra agrees.

She’s holding a bowl full of his spit and bile, which couldn’t be interpreted as romantic even with the Inquisitor’s overactive imagination at play. Not that Varric would think of Cassandra that way even if she weren’t trapped in a tent nursing him back to health. 

“Wouldn’t be puking,” Varric says. “In a romance. S’gross. Fevers’re better.” 

Cassandra laughs. 

Varric smiles limply at her. 

“Wasting illnesses,” Cassandra says. 

Varric’s brain doesn’t make the connection right away. 

“Yeah. Or a bad cough,” he says. 

“What did that one man die of, in your last book?” Cassandra asks. “Spots, wasn’t it?”

“Made it up,” Varric says. He coughs, and grimaces at the taste of his mouth.

Cassandra eases an arm around his shoulders. When he’s more or less sitting up, she offers him a cold canteen, condensation beading on its metal body. Varric wants to clutch it to his chest and hug it, but settles for pouring cool water into his mouth. 

“Don’t choke,” Cassandra says. She’s still bracing his body with her own, one arm a strong bar across his shoulder blades. “You will make yourself sick.” 

Varric’s stomach sloshes in warning. He tries to re seal the canteen twices, clumsy fingers making a hash of it. Cassandra sits next to him on his bedroll, a warm, reassuring presence. Varric leans into her. She plucks the canteen from his listless hand, closes it, and sets it aside. 

“Glad you’re here to keep me from puking to death,” Varric says. 

“You have not finished the next _Swords and Shields_ ,” Cassandra says.

“I see how it is,” Varric says. “So long as I’m still useful, Seeker.” 

Cassandra stiffens. “I did not mean-”

Varric pats her leg. “I gotcha, Seeker. I uh. Need to not be sitting up. Now.” 

Cassandra helps him sink into the nest of blankets and pillows. Someone’s going without, for him to have these. Varric’s pretty sure who that someone is. Cassandra’s cool hand brushes the hair off his forehead, distracting him from the minor flash of guilt. She starts, when he covers her hand with his, trapping her cool digits against his aching head. 

“Sorry,” he says. “Feels good.” 

Cassandra pulls her hand free after a moment. Varric has a split second to mourn the loss, before her other hand curves over his brow. 

“I held the canteen,” Cassandra says in response to Varric’s interrogative grunt. “You took care of me, when I fainted, do you remember?”

Varric’s not sure he’ll ever forget the lurch of his heart when she’d dropped all of a sudden onto the sand. She’d _crumpled_ , like a discarded piece of paper. 

Varric nods. “Yeah, I remember,” he says hoarsely.

“Was it romantic?” Cassandra asks. 

“Nah,” Varric says. “Had other things on my mind.” 

“Then we can tell the Inquisitor that, when you’re well,” Cassandra says firmly. “Perhaps he will let us be, then.” 

Varric’s chest feels hollow. It shouldn’t. It doesn’t matter to him that Cassandra sounds so satisfied with the prospect of putting an end to Cheery and Sparkler’s teasing. He should be relieved, too. Varric buries himself further beneath the blankets. The motion jars his sensitive stomach, and he spends the next few minutes with his eyes screwed shut, breathing shallowly through his nose. Cassandra’s hand rests against his back, and he presses his forehead into her thigh. It helps. 

“Will you be alright?” Cassandra asks. 

He’s not sure, but Varric thinks the answer might be “no”. Not because he still feels like casting up his accounts with every other breath. Because the warm, sturdy presence of Cassandra Pentaghast is suddenly necessary for his comfort. 

Varric shakes his head, very cautiously. He burps. It’s noxious.

“Ugh,” Cassandra says. “Poor Varric.” 

“S’a first,” Varric says.

“You’re very ill,” Cassandra replies. 

Varric mashes his face against her hip. If he stays exactly like this and doesn't think about anything, he almost feels like shit. It’s an improvement.

“Stay?” Varric mumbles. 

Vomiting is shockingly exhausting. 

“We are sharing a tent,” Cassandra reminds him. “And shall, until you are well.”

Moving away from Cassandra requires more energy than Varric’s got. Not to mention the effect even _thinking_ about motion has on his beleaguered innards. 

Cassandra’s fingers brush his cheek. There’s a thoughtful silence. Varric comes close to drifting off to sleep, weary beyond words. Cassandra gets to her feet. Varric’s too tired to feel bereft. It’s an eternity before she picks up the edge of his blanket cocoon, and slides in next to him. Her warm body curls around his, and Varric could really weep. It feels _good_ to be held, to have someone offering him simple comfort. For it to be _Cassandra_ with him. 

“You have all the blankets,” she says as explanation. 

Varric huffs out a noise that should’ve been a laugh. 

“Thanks, Seeker,” he says softly. 

It might be exhaustion, or dehydration warping his senses, but Varric swears he feels the light pressure of Cassandra’s lips on the top of his head, before sleep finally relieves him.


	89. Chest Kiss (NSFW)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Cassandra are up to no good, again.

Varric can barely breathe, can hardly move in the heady tension that’s stretching between him and Cassandra. It’s been so long, nearly two years and she’s even more beautiful than she’d been the last time he’d seen her. He almost regrets asking her to have dinner with him, because now there’s nothing between them, nothing to protect him from the way he feels about her. Cassandra watches him from across the table, eyes dark and lips parted. Candlelight suits her. It doesn’t soften her features, it throws her cheekbones into high relief, showcases the sharp lines of her face, the elegant curve of her throat. 

“Varric,” she says. 

Her voice throbs in the semi darkness. Her mouth is firm, her eyes uncertain, but warm with hope. 

They stare across the table at one another. One of them must move, must take the last step, the first step. Varric’s afraid it will be him, that he will reach for her and find it’s all an illusion. 

Cassandra’s hand grabs at his, at the same time he grasps her fingers, slides his hand up her arm to pull her over the table. Her hands snag in his tunic, yank him up onto his toes. Varric brushes his plate aside, scattering the cutlery somewhere out of his damn way so he can lean over the table without Cassandra strangling him by the shirt collar.

For all the frenzy, their first kiss is gentle, timid. Cassandra’s mouth presses against his, warm and soft. Varric squeezes her shoulders, tips his head up and kisses her back just as chastely. They part. Her forehead rests against his. 

“I have-” she has to start again, “I have wanted to do that for so long.” 

Varric’s heart constricts. 

“You haven’t,” he manages to say. It sounds small and a little pathetic to his ears. 

Maker, if he could eat those words. 

“I have, I wanted to kiss you. Among other things,” Cassandra says. 

Her eyes twinkle as she looks down at him, smiling with a freeness he’s never seen before. 

“If that’s acceptable,” she adds.

“When did you get to be such a smartass,” Varric says against her mouth.

“You’re a terrible influence- mmf!”

Varric kisses her again. He’s definitely going to abuse that privilege whenever he can, he thinks. Cassandra’s lips part on a sigh. 

Eternities later, he pulls away, laughs a little ruefully. He sits on the table’s edge, watching Cassandra and feeling a bit smug about how well kissed she looks. 

Cassandra’s eyes are a little unfocused, but she smiles at him and his heart fucking stutters.

“You should. It’s late you-” Varric takes a deep breath. 

Cassandra skirts around the table, and stops in front of him. 

“If you want me to go, I will,” she says. 

Hesitates. 

The air between them trembles again, and Varric can’t imagine how he’s managed to keep his distance for so long. Even now it’s hard to keep from touching her; without his noticing, one of his hands sits proprietarily on her waist. 

Her hands slip beneath the collar of his tunic. 

“But I would rather not,” Cassandra says. 

“Stay,” Varric says.

Her hands cup his jaw, her mouth smears against his and Varric finds himself enveloped by Cassandra. She kisses a hot trail along his jaw, down his neck, stops to sink her teeth into the crux of his throat and shoulder. She sucks a mark into his skin, fingers digging into his shoulders, body pressed close to his. He hauls her up for a kiss, the desperate need to be inside her somehow burning through him. Cassandra oozes between his legs, urges their bodies together. The layers of fabric separating them is too much and not enough but somehow perfect.

“Holy shit,” his fingers clench against her waist. 

He can feel her smirk against his neck.

“Sit,” she says. 

Varric’s too slow to react, and Cassandra yanks on his arms, urging him off the table. He goes, lets her back him up against a nearby chair. 

She sinks down to her knees in front of him, and that’s a sight he never thought he’d see. 

“This is a dream,” Varric gasps out.

“You can’t dream,” Cassandra murmurs. 

She presses a kiss against his chest, over his thundering heart. Clever fingers unwind the sash from his waist, slip the little hooks of his tunic free. Cassandra makes quick work of his laces, curls her hand around his cock. 

Varric’s fingers dig into the chair’s arms. 

“Seeker,” he grits out. 

She strokes him lightly, coaxes him harder. Her gaze is intent on him, on his half-hard cock. 

“ _Fuck!_ ” Varric gasps. 

His hips jerk up into her touch. Varric exhales heavily through his nose, as Cassandra takes his cock into her mouth. She’s silky soft and hot and perfect. Varric’s eyes roll back, pleasure zipping along his every nerve. Cassandra’s hand grips the base of his cock, and Varric grits his teeth, tries not to thrust his hips at all. He shivers. Cassandra curves her free hand over his thigh, settling herself more comfortably between his legs. Varric goes from half-hard to rock hard so fast his vision blurs. 

Cassandra moans, the noise muffled by his cock.

 _His_ cock’s in her mouth, Varric thinks a bit frantically. Her hands are on him, the air is thick with her desire, with the wet noises of her sucking him off. It’s unbelievably hot. Varric’s chest heaves, his pulse hammers in his ears. 

He looks down, and she looks up. 

“Cassandra-” 

Her hand tightens around him, just a little. 

It’s been too long, and this is- Maker it’s almost too much. Cassandra makes a small satisfied noise, as though having his cock in her mouth is the best fucking thing that’s happened to her in ages. 

Varric’s thighs quake with the strain of holding back. 

His fingers snarl in her hair. 

Cassandra pulls away, drops a kiss to the head of his cock before giving him a look that shouldn’t be allowed, that makes him want to come right then and there. Her lips are swollen red, slick with spit, her face flushed, her eyes bright. She licks her lips. Varric’s cock twitches. 

“You do not need to hold back,” Cassandra says, her voice husky. “I want you, Varric.” 

Varric watches the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the tide of pink that’s sweeping from her cheeks down past the open throat of her shirt. 

“You sure?” Varric says. 

Cassandra pumps his cock, lazily. She smiles at him, her lips curving up wickedly.

“You can repay me later,” she says. 

Varric’s mind floods him with images of all the ways he could return the favour. Cassandra wet and open beneath his mouth, her fingers tangling in his hair, her heels digging into his back. There’s a desk in his chambers he needs to bend her over. 

Cassandra kisses the crease between his hip and his thigh. 

“Do you want this, Varric?” she asks. Her hand stills its ministrations. “If you do not, it is not… you do not _need_ to.” 

“Seeker,” Varric says. It comes out part growl. “Yes. I want you to let me fuck your face, Maker’s holy ass-” 

Higher thought is immediately obliterated when Cassandra swallows him down again.

“Holy shit,” Varric chokes out. 

His hips jerk reflexively. Cassandra gags for a moment, adjusts, and hums her satisfaction. Varric curves his hand around the back of her head, and thrusts shallowly into her mouth. 

Cassandra whimpers, and Varric’s self control shatters like glass. The air fills with a host of small obscene noises. 

“So good holy- Cassandra, holy shit,” Varric pants out. “You’re so good at this, you’re amazing, you take it so well- _oh fuck_.” 

Cassandra’s fingers dig into his thighs. She wails, lets out some desperate sound that Varric can feel to the soles of his feet. Varric fucks into her mouth faster, tries to be gentle with her. The prick of her nails in his skin goads him forwards, torques his need higher, tighter, until he snaps. Varric’s teeth grind together, his body jerks, as he spills down Cassandra’s throat with a pained grunt.

Varric sags back down onto his chair. His fingers stroke through Cassandra’s messy hair. She draws back from him, and swallows twice. She rests her head against Varric’s trembling thigh, breathing raggedly. Varric’s heart thunders in his ears. He clears his throat. Cassandra looks up at him, one brow quirked up. “Let me thank you,” Varric says. 

Cassandra’s eyes widen. A smile blooms on her face, and she laughs. 

“And how will you do that?” she asks. 

“Effusively,” Varric says, kissing her wrist. “Endlessly.” 

Cassandra exhales, turns her face against his thigh to hide her smile. Varric can feel it. 

“In a bed, hopefully,” she says. 

“Allegedly this place is full of ‘em,” Varric says. 

Cassandra stands, and pulls Varric up with her. His legs show a disturbing tendency towards quaking, and the first step he takes sends him tumbling towards her. 

“We should get started then,” Cassandra says into his hair.

Varric languishes in her arms, savouring the smell of her. As an afterthought, he tucks himself back into his trousers and makes a half hearted attempt at putting himself to rights.

“Get started?” he says, distracted from buttoning up his tunic by the proximity of Cassandra’s breasts to his face. 

“Using the beds,” Cassandra says. 

“All of them?” Varric asks, giving up on his buttons in favour of nuzzling Cassandra’s breasts through her shirt. 

“All of them,” Cassandra agrees. “Come, my love.” 

Varric stumbles out of the dining room in her wake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by Ruffles (in November oh gosh), filled for the Fic a Day in May challenge!


	90. With a Bang, with a whimper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Cassandra and the interminable wait for a new future.

Cassandra staggers to her feet again. Her sword, minus the last six inches, weighs her arm down. Varric watches the jagged bit of steel waver in the thin light their one torch gives off. She brings her shield up, cracked and studded with broken arrows, scarred by claws and teeth. Blood streaks down her face, beneath her collar. Varric can hear her ragged, struggling breaths from where he’s sat. It hurts to blink, let alone stand, but he’s got to. Using the wall and his one good arm, Varric claws himself to what could very loosely be called “standing”. His right arm is a heavy, boneless weight at his side, good for nothing but sending blinding waves of pain rippling through him. Bianca’s useless, impossible to operate one handed, even if he had the bolts for her. He has his daggers, a few caltrops. Nothing helpful. 

“May as well try to drink the Waking Sea with a teacup,” he mutters. 

Varric leans on the wet stone wall, braces his uninjured shoulder against it. His head swims. Somewhere in the distance, monsters howl. Demons and the remains of humans, too corrupted by red lyrium to be more than pain crazed animals. 

There’s a haze of red over everything, a soft song that Varric knows too well. He wonders how much longer it would’ve needed for Cassandra to succumb, for his mind to slip away following the whispers. He wants to, right now. They promise release, ease for his aches and pains. Peaceful oblivion. 

Quiet murmuring cuts through the lyrium’s song like a knife.

Cassandra is praying. Her voice gains strength as she tries to drown out the keening demons. Varric wonders if she can hear the song too, if she wants to lie down and have it all stop. 

The demons are getting closer. 

Cassandra shifts her feet into a fighting stance. Her sagging sword lifts to catch and reflect the light. She’s so beautiful. Even through the red blur, even after a year in Alexius’ dungeons. After the torture, the starvation, the red lyrium’s painful bite. The sight of her, beaten, bruised, bloody, _dying_ and still trying to fight brights a hot wave of agony sweeping through Varric’s chest. He barks out a laugh. It’s too late, now. Cassandra turns her whole torso to look at him. 

“You’re beautiful,” Varric says. “Should’ve told you.” 

“Varric,” she says, shock reverberating through her voice. 

“S’alright, Seeker. It’s _okay_ ,” Varric says. “Just wanted to say it before-”

A demon screeches, freezing Varric’s blood. He adjusts his grip on his dagger, fingers going numb by degrees. It won’t be a long fight, now. If the demons don’t hurry, he’ll only be able to wound them with sarcastic remarks. Varric wedges himself further into the corner between the door’s jamb and the wall. The waiting has always been the worst part.

“I love you,” Cassandra says, her voice ringing out over the chittering demons. 

Varric gawks at her back, wonders if the lyrium is warping his hearing. 

“You what!?” he says.

“I love you,” Cassandra repeats. “You wrote a _book_ for me, Varric.” 

Varric remembers the book, written on scavenged paper. He’d finished it just before the big push against the castle. Somehow, it had been so important he finish this one thing, his worst serial for a woman he’d only begun to care for. 

Varric rests his head against the clammy stone. 

“You smiled at me,” he says. “Middle of a fucking war, everyone knowing it was the last push against Alexius, and you _smiled_ at me.” 

Cassandra turns and smiles at him again. 

“It was a kindness I have never forgotten,” she says. “You did not have to do it, nor do it well, but you did. For me.” 

The first demon comes tearing around the corner, claws skirling against the stone floor. 

“I love you,” Varric wheezes out. 

It hurts, but won’t for much longer. Suddenly he feels protective of the last moments, the last bits of life in this timeline. If the Herald and Dorian succeed, none of it will have happened. He and Cassandra and Leliana and all the others will _live_. 

Will she love him, in the other world?

***

Varric lives long enough to see Cassandra die, to feel the sudden pulse of magic as Dorian and the Herald complete their spell. Whether it succeeds, he doesn’t know. 

He follows the lyrium’s song into the darkness, and quiet.

***

Cassandra smiles at him, in Skyhold’s courtyard. She’s radiant, her face lighting with joy and true, honest love for his shitty romance serial. 

Varric doesn’t mind that the Inquisitor has to remind her to thank him, or that Cassandra ignores them both so she can delve with flattering eagerness into her new book. 

She settles herself on the stump by the training dummies, and hunches over her book. Varric can easily imagine her as a little girl, eagerly tearing through another tale of knights and dragons and romantic speeches. Probably sitting on something finer than a log in a falling-down keep. Knowing Cassandra, she prefers the falling-down keep and the stump. Varric smiles at her bowed head, knowing she can’t see him, before he walks away. He feels lighter, warmed by some tentative, bubbly sensation. 

Cassandra likes his books. 

“Worth it,” he says to himself, only a little surprised to find it’s true. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by uchidachi on tumblr since they were very amusing. 
> 
> In Hushed Whispers is my favourite storyline in Inquisition, which is why so many of my fics are set there. 
> 
> Filled for the Fic a Day in May challenge.
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	91. Under Cover of Darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Cassandra fall into a pit

The darkness hides a multitude of sins. As a rogue, Varric is more than intimate with the ways a moonless night can disguise and distort. Which makes it all the more humiliating that he is currently in the bottom of a pit in the Dales. With _Cassandra Pentaghast._ It could be worse, Varric tells himself. He could’ve fallen into a pit in the Dales with Chuckles, who would’ve spent the hours until rescue talking about the Elvish provenance of the pit, and how pits in the days of Arlethan were much superior in their construction. At least the Seeker seems disinclined to comment on the putative role the pit may have played in the fall of the Dales. Small mercies, Varric tells himself. 

Cassandra sits down next to him in a huff. This probably isn’t the best time to tell her he wasn’t kidding about not liking enclosed, small spaces. They can at least see the sky, which is helpful. Still, the pit’s not big so far as deep holes in the ground go, and Cassandra makes it seem smaller. She takes up, Varric notices suddenly, a _lot_ of space. It should be the opposite. Without her armour on, Cassandra ought to look smaller, not bigger. She bows her head, and Varric watches the heavy muscles in her neck flex, his eyes tracking down to her shoulders and arms. She probably _could_ have thrown him across that ravine earlier. No wonder she’d been able to take Bull down with just a stick. Cassandra could probably give Aveline a fair fight. Maybe they could arrange a match for charity. 

Varric’s imagination supplies him with a lifelike image of Cassandra, stripped down and sweaty, muscles straining with effort. Her thighs bracketing his head. 

Cassandra turns her head to meet his eyes. 

“Why are you staring?” she asks, her voice wary. 

Varric’s brain stutters. Somehow being at the bottom of a pit and realizing how big Cassandra really is has done weird things to his mind. He wants to touch every inch of her, find every bit of softness she possesses with his mouth, feel all those muscles quiver beneath him. 

“You’re- there’s a _lot_ of you,” he says. 

Thick and awkward silence reigns in the small pit. Varric might choke on it. He probably should. Where the hell is his vaunted charm?

“I am aware,” Cassandra says. She sounds tired, as if she’s heard all this before. She probably has.

Varric thinks about Halamshiral. Cassandra had barely interacted with anyone, staying in the foyer after her introduction alongside the Inquisition. He’d chalked it up to her infamous lack of patience with the noble class, and maybe it was for the most part. He hadn’t thought about whether the Seeker felt awkward in a room of women who didn’t lift anything heavier than a teacup. 

“Not in a bad way,” Varric blithers. “I mean, you’re not- uh. You-”

Cassandra shoots him a Look. He deserves it. He hasn’t felt this much at a loss in the face of a woman since… since. Varric can’t actually remember being this much of an ass to any woman he’s lov-

Cassandra thumps him on the back as Varric chokes. It’s probably a good sign. She obviously doesn’t want him to suffocate, so she can’t be _too_ mad at him. Hopefully.

Varric wipes his streaming eyes. 

Holy shit. _Holy shit_. It’s as if he’s been trapped underground for months and has finally emerged into the daylight.

The moment of elated realization pops like a soap bubble as the reality of his previous idiocy sinks in.

“Can we try that again,” Varric says. 

Cassandra, as far away from him as can be managed in the closeness of the pit, frowns. She crosses her arms over her chest, and Varric pretends he’s not following the motion with hungry eyes. 

“I _do_ expect a better class of insult from you, Varric,” Cassandra says. 

“I’m an idiot,” Varric says fervently. 

Cassandra snorts. Varric edges closer, enough to see her mouth curving into a smile. It’s not a very happy smile, but he’ll take it. Maybe by the end of this, he can coax a real one from her. Perhaps even a laugh, or a-

Varric steers his thoughts away from anything involving the Seeker and kissing. 

Still, she smiled, and she hasn’t turned him to a small elegantly dressed smear on the floor. Varric has done more with less. 

“You’re…” Varric stalls, flattery dying on his tongue. “You wouldn’t believe me if I said you were beautiful, would you?”

Cassandra shakes her head. “I know myself, dwarf.” 

Varric sits back on his haunches, stymied. It is surprisingly painful to look at Cassandra and really see her, and know that he can’t convince her of his honesty. There’s irony there- the one time he wants to be truthful, he won’t be believed. 

It’s pretty fucking sad. 

Silence isn’t preferable, but it’s better than stumbling over his own tongue trying to repair the damage he’s just done. Varric tilts his head back, wondering how the hell he keeps hurting people. Isn’t he supposed to be the one who’s good at people? 

The quiet takes on an awkward quality, heavy with unspoken words. Cassandra stirs once, twice. Varric thinks maybe she’s about to say something, when the Inquisitor’s head pops over the rim of their pit. 

“Hello lovebirds!” she carols out. 

Varric waits for the pit to swallow him. 

Cassandra huffs, and clambers to her feet. Varric’s gaze follows her up and up. Maker, now that he _sees_ he can’t stop. 

“Cassandra,” he murmurs, reaching out to touch her hand. 

To his unending surprise, she lets him capture her fingers in his own. She looks down at him, at her fingers curving gracefully over the roughness of his palm. Varric carries her hand to his mouth and brushes a gentle kiss on her knuckles. Cassandra’s fingers give his hand an involuntary squeeze. Varric turns her hand over and lays another kiss on her palm, and another. Cassandra cups his jaw in her hand, and Varric leans into it. She looks down and he looks up, and somewhere in between, understanding blooms. 

The Inquisitor whistles. 

“Varric you _dog!_ ” she calls out. “Should I go tell the others we don’t need a ladder?”

“You might need it,” Cassandra says to him. Her mouth quirks up strangely. 

Above them, Kit hoots with laughter. “Get ‘im, Seeker!” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by Ruffles, this was meant to be a minific. Whoops.


	92. 19. Having a Wet Dream and Calling the Other's Name During It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra dreams of Varric's touch.

Varric’s grin is crooked, as his hands skate over her thighs. Cassandra’s breathing speeds up, mouth agape as she watches him sink down onto his knees. 

“You’re shaking,” he says, pressing a kiss to her thigh. “Been thinking about this, Cassandra?”

She has, oh Maker she has. Cassandra doesn’t dare speak. She might say something wrong, and if Varric leaves _now,_ if he doesn’t touch her, she might weep with frustration. 

Varric studies her, his eyes burning. He is still for so long, Cassandra worries something’s not right. Perhaps she is not pleasing or he is having second thoughts or-

Varric’s hot mouth sears her flesh. Cassandra whimpers, her body tensing. It feels too good too soon. Knotting her fingers in his hair, Cassandra feels Varric’s stubble rasp against her thighs. There will be marks there, later. An exhilarating thought. Varric does _something_ that makes her toes curl and the muscles of her stomach tremble. She doesn’t want him to stop, ever. 

He does, and Cassandra groans. 

Varric’s fingers spread her wide, not filling her, not nearly close enough to filling her. 

“Varric,” Cassandra sighs out. 

His mouth quirks up. “You can do better than that, Seeker.” 

The look in his eyes is dangerous. Cassandra smiles at him, her own smile gone wild. 

Varric leans in again.

“ _Varric!”_ Cassandra shrieks. 

He sucks harder on her clit, his fingers stroking some spot inside that has her a writhing mess in _seconds_. Maker it feels so good, better than she’d ever thought it could. Varric’s gaze meets hers. Cassandra cannot stop watching him. A shudder wracks her body. Varric whines, as she shivers and squeezes around him. He wants this just as much as she does. Maker, she’s wanted this for so long. Cassandra flies over the edge, rocking her hips against his mouth and fingers with abandon. Her hands fist in the bed sheets. 

“Don’t stop,” Cassandra pants out. “Varric, Varric please don’t-” 

He moans, his hands curving around her thighs as he hauls her closer. His fingers slip free from her cunt, and Varric fucks her with his tongue instead, devouring her with eager glee. 

“Oh,” Cassandra gasps. 

Her heels press into Varric’s back. She shuts her eyes, face twisted up as she holds herself still against Varric’s mouth. Her hips buck once, twice. Varric’s tongue flicks against her clit. 

Cassandra comes wailing his name.

***

Cassandra awakes to blurry, uncertain light. Her body sings with dreamed pleasure still, and drowsy as she is, it is tempting to slip back into sleep to luxuriate in the feeling. She is almost asleep again, when an unwelcome realization wakes her like a bath of cold water. Cassandra stills, her breath stopped in her throat. 

Varric. She is sharing a tent. With Varric. 

He is likely still asleep. Varric has never been an early riser, and sleeps like a rock on top of that. He will not have noticed her dreaming. 

“Seeker?” Varric’s rough voice dashes her hopes. 

She could feign sleep. Ignore him and not have to face the inevitable mocking. 

He could not possibly know, Cassandra reassures herself. She has never spoken in her sleep before, so there is no way Varric could know. She is being irrational. He cannot read the truth from her face. 

Cassandra rolls over, and props herself up on one elbow. The moment she does, it’s obvious Varric _knows_. He looks at her, a blush staining his face and something else there Cassandra hasn’t seen before. Hunger. 

“What is it, Varric?” Cassandra asks. 

“Have a good dream?” Varric says. 

Cassandra’s face heats up. Prayers for the earth to swallow her whole go unanswered. She sits up properly, blankets pooling around her waist. Varric’s gaze slips from her eyes to her mouth, to her breasts, hurriedly flicking back to her eyes as though hoping she won’t have noticed. His eyes drop to her mouth again. 

Cassandra wonders if she’s drooled on herself. Perhaps her pillow has left marks on her face. Self consciously, she rubs a hand over her lips. Varric’s eyes track the movement. 

“I am-” Cassandra halts. “Sorry to have disturbed you.”

Varric smirks. “Helluva disturbance, Seeker.”

It is not possible to ignite from sheer embarrassment, but Cassandra makes the attempt. Briefly. Her self-confidence reasserts itself in time to prevent any further apology. She is a grown woman, and no more responsible for her dreams than any other person. Varric might poke fun all he will. It does not matter to her. The light outside has yet to resolve into anything like daylight. Cassandra lowers herself down onto her bedroll, and gives Varric her back. 

“If you must mock, do it when I am awake,” Cassandra says with a sigh. 

Varric rustles about, shifting until Cassandra can no longer ignore it.

“What is it, Varric?” she snaps. 

“Was it a good dream?” he asks in a soft voice. 

Cassandra blinks. A multitude of answers crowd her mouth, most of them dismissive. Why should she provide Varric with more ammunition, after all? But there is something in the quietness of his question that catches at her. 

“It was,” she says. “Very good.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompted by uchidachi on tumblr for the semi nsfw prompt meme!


	93. 9 & 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 9\. Confessing a fetish
> 
> 12\. Successfully turning the other person on

Cassandra is not hiding, not precisely. She has enacted a strategic retreat. Out of the circle of firelight, it is not so easy to pretend the heat of her skin is only due to the fire's warmth. She presses her hands against her face, feeling foolish. A woman of nearly forty, too embarrassed to talk about _sex_ of all things. As though she's never engaged in it. Foolishness. It is not so much the Inquisitor, or Iron Bull. Cassandra knows herself well enough to admit that. Their behaviour towards the subject is impersonal in the extreme. Similar to Blackwall and Varric discussing jousting. 

On cue, Varric's rough laugh echoes through the campsite. Cassandra's heart trips over itself. 

She had left before Varric could be induced to share in any of his... exploits or preferences.

It is not that she finds the idea of Varric and sex distasteful. It is the exact opposite. Cassandra burns for him, hotter than a dragon’s flame. Even now she feels that treacherous heat between her legs, the soft ache of dawning arousal. Better to leave and cool down than sit next to him and try to keep from squirming in her seat. Cassandra shuts her eyes against the memory of Varric next to her, the intense awareness of him she’d felt the whole time. She will return to the fire when it is safe, when she will no longer hope and fear Varric’s eyes will meet hers and he will see her desire etched across her face. 

She will have to tell him, or allow the secret of her feelings to gnaw at her heart forever. There are no other options.

Their tent is cool, the quietness soothing. Cassandra feels her muscles unknot, her tense posture loosens. A few minutes of peace and quiet is what she needs. She takes her boots off, and flops down on her bedroll.

Maker but she is ridiculous, Cassandra thinks, half smiling. 

Footsteps draw nearer to the tent. Cassandra’s heartbeat picks up in anticipation. 

_Varric._

Cassandra frowns at the tent’s roof, and flings an arm over her eyes. 

Varric enters the tent with a laugh still on his lips, bringing with him the smell of woodsmoke and crisp air. 

“Seeker,” he drawls. 

She does _not_ like the way her title rolls off his tongue, it is not fair that Varric can turn it into a caress. A fond nickname. 

“Varric,” Cassandra says, her voice stiff.

He drapes his duster over a trunk, peels his gloves and boots off. Bianca is adjusted in her stand, given a loving pat. Cassandra rolls her eyes. Varric plumps his pillow up, and settles onto his bedroll. They are by necessity less than an arm’s length away from one another. It is too far and not close enough for Cassandra’s liking. It engenders a sort of intimate atmosphere she doesn’t know quite what to do with.

Varric is silent long enough that she thinks perhaps he will not ask. It’s not entirely a surprise to find she’s disappointed. 

When the question does come, it isn’t the one Cassandra expected. 

“Were you uncomfortable?” Varric asks. 

Cassandra rolls onto her side, to find Varric regarding her with a somber expression. It is strange to look up at him. Not in a bad way. It is only an angle she does not often see. Cassandra takes a moment to admire him. Her eyes trace the familiar slant of his nose, the strong line of his jaw, the arch of his collar bones. As though she hasn’t memorized them all by now. 

“No,” Cassandra says. “I am not some blushing maiden, Varric.”

“Could’ve sworn I saw your ears go red,” Varric teases. 

He isn’t wrong, damn him. Cassandra’s heart soars at the thought that he’d been paying attention to her. Of course it’s more likely that he didn’t notice at all, and is only being obnoxious. 

“It was the heat from the fire,” Cassandra says primly. 

“Hearing Bull talk about fisting didn’t get you all hot and bothered?” Varric asks.

Cassandra snorts. “It was uncannily like listening to Cullen talk about calibrating the catapults.” 

Varric laughs. 

“Large siege weapons don’t do it for you, Seeker?” Varric says. He waggles his eyebrows. 

“It’s not the size of the weapon that matters,” Cassandra says. “It is the skill of the wielder.” 

Varric snorts. He leans back on his elbows, a smile playing around his mouth and in his eyes. 

His tunic gapes open in a very distracting manner. Cassandra drinks in the glimpse of his broad chest, the hint of his soft stomach. 

Silence springs up after her comment. Cassandra turns over and dismisses several different conversational openings, each more inane to her critical ears than the last.

“Not the kind to kiss and tell, Seeker?” Varric asks casually. 

It takes Cassandra a few minutes to connect that sentence to its context. 

“I do not enjoy discussing my _conquests_ ,” she says. “If that is what you mean.” 

Varric winces. 

“You did not contribute to the discussion either,” Cassandra adds. 

Varric smirks at her. “You left, how do you know I wasn’t saving the best for last?”

Cassandra gives him a steady look. “Because it is _personal_.” 

Varric looks away. His mouth quirks up. 

Cassandra sits up and crosses her legs beneath her. Varric stares at some point out in the distance, beyond the confines of their tent. When he turns his gaze back to her, his eyes are intense, beyond the usual fire that animates him. 

“Trade?” he offers, expression carefully innocent.

His eyes still blaze. 

Cassandra’s brows draw down. 

“A trade?” she asks. 

“Personal for personal,” Varric says. He shrugs, as though he isn’t asking what Cassandra’s certain he’s asking.

The air between them thickens, contracts. 

Cassandra licks her lips, mouth gone desert dry of a sudden. 

“You want to know… my _preferences_ ,” she says carefully. 

Her heart is an awkward weight in her chest, thunking against her ribs. Varric is not sitting closer, it is a trick of the mind, she tells herself. 

Their knees are almost touching. They were not, before. 

Cassandra darts a quick look at Varric’s face. 

“Yeah,” Varric says. His voice is low, almost hoarse. He clears it roughly. 

She could lean in and touch him now, Cassandra thinks. Could run her hand over the stubbled line of his jaw. Touch the soft plushness of his mouth with her own. 

“Share and share alike, Seeker,” he says in a more normal tone.

Cassandra pulls back. 

Maker, what to tell him? She could take the easy path, confide some innocuous secret desire and leave it at that. It would not be _lying_. But if she breathed life into one of her more fervent desires, would it be fulfilled? Would _Varric_ see it done? Cassandra picks at her index finger, worrying at the skin around her fingernail. If she does not speak she risks never knowing. If she does… Besides, there is a strange sort of intimacy in the darkness of their tent. Only her and Varric, and their secrets.

“I enjoy being in public,” Cassandra blurts out into the silence. It sounds awkward and not at all alluring. 

Varric does not speak. Cassandra swallows heavily and forges on. 

“There is a risk in knowing you might be discovered, that someone might see you. To be so abandoned to lust you do not care,” she says lowly. Heat pools between her legs. “To be watched, as well. By a partner, while I am… pleasuring myself.” 

Varric’s breath gusts out of him. 

He looks anguished, Cassandra notices through the haze of embarrassed pride. 

“You wanted to know,” she says, her voice awkward. 

Varric jerks his chin up in an abbreviated nod. “Yeah I did.” 

“It is your turn, dwarf,” Cassandra says brusquely.

She aches. The admission of her wants, of the desires she keeps closest to her heart, is freeing and mortifying both. 

Varric clears his throat. 

“You,” he says. 

He is the most frustrating man in Thedas, Cassandra thinks. 

His mouth is hot against hers, lips just as soft as she’d imagined they would be but a little chapped. 

“I am your preference?” she murmurs. 

Varric’s hands slide around her waist. “Damn right.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Filled for an anon on tumblr!


	94. 16… having some “private time” and the other accidentally walking in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Var-" Cassandra breathes out. 
> 
> Her eyes slide open lazily.
> 
> Varric stares back.

“Var-” Cassandra breathes out. 

Her eyes slide open lazily. 

Varric stares back.

He has really, _really_ fucked up this time. Varric’s breath whooshes out of his chest as the full scale of just how badly he fucked up hits home. Cassandra is staring at him with bleary horror, her mouth agape. His hand is glued to the doorknob, the only real thing in this entire surreal moment. In reality it’s only been seconds since he carelessly flung Cassandra’s bedroom door open. It feels longer, an eternity of frozen time. 

She is _so naked._

There is a difference between nude and naked. The former implies some choice in the matter, the latter an inherent vulnerability. 

“Sorry,” Varric blurts out. 

He slams the door behind him, in his flight out of her apartment. The image of Cassandra reclining on her bed, naked and sweaty, fucking herself flits through his head. Varric bursts out of her apartment building. The crisp spring air does nothing to cool his furious blush, or the wave of want. Varric rests his head against the brick wall, eyes screwed shut. He’s got to purge that vision of Cassandra from his thoughts, but it’s burnt into his retinas, alongside the look of shocked misery when she saw him watching her.

Maker. 

His phone rings. 

Varric fumbles it out of his pocket, swiping to answer it without looking. His hands are shaking, he notes. 

“Varric?” 

Cassandra’s voice doesn’t waver. She sounds the same as she always does. Strong, controlled. 

“Hey Seeker. Long time no see,” his mouth says, independently of all reason.

He’s an idiot.

Cassandra laughs. He can hear the edge of her nervousness there. Varric shuts his eyes and sees her again. Not as she was upstairs. That’s not his to have, really. Not without her permission and Varric _knows_ he doesn’t have it. He shunts his thoughts away from that direction; she’d never look at him that way, how she had in the seconds before her blissed out brain had registered him gawking in her doorway. Instead, he thinks of her smiles when he does something particularly good. Or bad, like when he’d taken her to the shiftiest bar in Lowtown for her birthday one year. She’d glared at him, then won an arm wrestling match against the biggest biker he’d ever seen. That’s right about when he’d fallen in love with her, unfair as it is to both of them.

It’s not fair to her, to love her and want more than she can give him. Varric wonders about leaving sometimes, pulling away so he doesn’t have to worry about whether he’s here because he loves her, or because some stupid subconscious part of him hopes he can convince her to love him back. 

Static crackles between them. Varric imagines the invisible line connecting them via their phones, from his place down in the sidewalk to her room on the tenth floor. 

“About earlier,” Cassandra starts. 

“I’m sorry,” Varric says. He means it. Regret gnaws at his innards. 

“It is…” Cassandra clears her throat. “I expect an apology.” 

That makes sense. Varric’s already composing lists of her favourite things in his head. He’ll beg forgiveness, lay low for a while, and eventually they’ll both forget today ever happened. They’ll be back to normal in no time. 

“Of course,” Varric says. 

He steps off the curb, crossing the parking lot in the time it takes for Cassandra to make up her mind about what she wants to say next. Varric fully expects her to ask that he stay away for a few days. Promises to give her all the time she needs hover on the tip of his tongue. 

“You should come back up and apologize in person,” Cassandra says in a rush, as if she can speak faster than her confidence can ebb. 

Varric stills. “I should?” 

“Yes,” Cassandra says. 

“Now?” Varric asks. 

“ _Now_ , Varric,” Cassandra drawls. 

Varric bolts back across the parking lot, flings open the door and yanks on the inner door. Which of course, doesn’t open. 

“Buzz me in,” he gasps. 

“Did you run?” Cassandra says, with a smile he can almost see. 

“Sauntered casually,” Varric says. He leans his forehead against the glass door, hoping. 

Hope is going to be what gets him in the end. Just because she wants to see him now doesn’t mean his little fantasy will come true. 

(In a sordid corner of his imagination, Cassandra opens her apartment door wearing nothing but a smile.)

She’s not going to fuck him. She certainly doesn’t love him. Hoping for another outcome is going to hurt them both. Cassandra deserves better from him. 

The door unlatches. 

Varric opens it at a more sedate pace, and crosses the lobby at a walk. He wants to sprint, to race up all the flights of stairs between himself and Cassandra. He doesn’t. The elevator’s red numbers tick downwards at a pace that must be glacial. Varric resists the urge to pace or tap his foot or otherwise betray his eagerness to be back upstairs. 

Once the elevator doors open wide enough for him to pass through, Varric darts in and hits the button for Cassandra’s floor. 

The journey upwards is slower than the elevator’s downward trip. Varric ages ten years in the time it takes for him to reach Cassandra’s floor. He’s going to emerge from this elevator to find that a hundred years have passed, and the world has moved on without him. The elevator jerks to a halt. Varric’s out of it before the doors fully open. 

The bronze numbers affixed to Cassandra’s front door stop him cold. Behind them is his friend, the woman he loves. 

He’s being ridiculous. He’ll knock, Cassandra will let him in. He’ll say something charmingly apologetic (Varric’s not sure what yet, his brain will have to try its best), Cassandra will look stern at him, and by this time next week they’ll be watching shitty sci-fi movies together like old times. 

Varric knocks. Quick footsteps tap towards the door. 

Cassandra is better than naked. 

She stands in the doorway of her apartment in leggings and the sweater she stole from him in January, her hair sticking up funny. Her smile is a crooked one. 

“Been awhile since I knocked,” Varric says. 

“I noticed,” Cassandra says in a wry tone. 

“Seeker, about earlier-” Varric starts.

“Not out here. Come in,” Cassandra says, and steps aside to let him obey. 

The door clicks shut with an ominous finality. 

Cassandra fiddles with a loose thread trailing from the cuff of her sweater. She pulls, and the thread snaps. `

“I’m sorry,” Varric says again. “I should’ve knocked.” 

He’ll regret that move all the more if it means their friendship is going to suffer. Cassandra sits down in her favourite armchair, her legs curled beneath her. Her hands disappear into the cuffs of his sweater.

“You should have,” she agrees. “But I gave you a key so you could come and go, Varric. And I-”

She frowns. 

“I want to ask you something,” she says in a measured tone.

Varric arches an eyebrow at her. “Thinking before you speak?” 

Cassandra shoots him a dirty look. Varric grins. 

“I like you,” Cassandra says plainly. “Do you feel the same way?”

Her voice is even, but her eyes and her body betray her. Lines of worry bracket her mouth. Her shoulders are rigid. Her eyes bore into his own, earnest and anxious.Varric rolls her words over in his mind. 

“You like me. Seeker, we _have_ been friends for the past year and a half,” Varric points out. 

A grimace mars Cassandra’s face. Her ears go pink.

“I have stronger feelings for you than friendship,” she says. That earnest, frightened look hasn’t left her face yet.

Varric’s heart lurches towards his sinuses. 

Cassandra watches him with anxious eyes. 

“You like me,” he says. 

Cassandra nods. 

“I like you,” she repeats. 

Varric crosses the room, rushing in case his knees give out halfway. Cassandra looks up at him from her chair, craning her neck to watch him. Hope lurks in her eyes. 

“I like you too,” he says. 

Cassandra drops her gaze to his chest. She’s definitely not checking out his assets, which is a tragedy. 

“I see,” she says. 

Varric rolls his eyes. “I like _you_ too, Cassandra.” 

He slips his hand beneath her chin, tilting her head up so she can see his face. Cassandra’s lips part. Varric swallows once, takes a shaky breath, and bows his head. Their lips brush, a faint pressure that’s the bare minimum of a kiss. Varric’s heart shatters. Cassandra exhales a soft, surprised sound, as though she’d found something unexpected. Varric’s hands cup her face. He brushes another gentle kiss against her lips, and another, until somehow they blur into one long, perfect kiss. 

“I thought, when I said your name and you were there,” Cassandra gasps. “I thought you were upset-” 

Varric groans. “I didn’t hear _that_!”

“You didn’t?” Cassandra rears back to look at his face. “But-” 

“You were _getting off_ and I was staring! I thought you’d be furious with me!” Varric says, exasperatedly.

Cassandra laughs. “Embarrassing but surely not enough to ruin our friendship!” 

Varric stills. 

“Funny you should say that. Does… this change our friendship?” he says, gesturing between them. 

“It does not need to,” Cassandra says slowly. “Though… I would like to be your girlfriend. If that is acceptable.” 

Varric kisses her frowning mouth. “If you want me as a boyfriend…” 

“Yes,” Cassandra breathes, wrapping her arms around him. “Oh, yes.” 

Varric kisses her forehead. Then her nose, because he can. 

“It’s a deal,” he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Requested by the lovely tartanlioness on tumblr!


	95. 10. Pinning the Other Against a Wall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A desire demon reminds Varric why he hates the Fade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. BRIEF sexual assault sort of things at the chapter opening. Nothing too graphic but I figured better to be safe than sorry, and warn you all. 
> 
> 2\. Sorry!
> 
> 3\. Sorry again for the long hiatus (15 whole days whoops). If you haven't been following my Orillia Irllia updates over on my tumblr, I have been having some mental health shenanigans of late. That's been having a negative effect on my writing, and so actual fics will be a little... sporadic until further notice. Thank you to everyone for sticking with me.

Varric’s back scrapes against the cold stone of the interrogation chamber. His toes graze the floor. The Seeker’s mouth is hot and wet against his, and _insistent._ Varric’s fingers grope for a hold on the smooth metal carapace of her armour. Mailed hands tug his hair, pulling his head back to let the Seeker kiss him deeper, harder. It hurts but the sharpness only accentuates how _good_ he feels. And he feels amazing. Her hand slips down to stroke the straining hardness of his cock. Varric’s hips rock into her touch. The Seeker purrs, her grip tightening. Hurt and pleasure wind together for him, sharp and poignant, but not enough. Not nearly enough.

“This isn’t how it happened,” Varric gasps out. 

The Seeker laughs. “You wanted it to happen this way.” 

“I-” Varric starts. 

The Seeker slips her armoured thigh between his legs. Varric’s hips rock once before he remembers himself.

“You did,” the Seeker says. “Don’t lie to me, Varric. I know better.” 

She smiles. It isn’t the right smile, not now that he _knows_ what the real Seeker looks like when she’s happy. Varric’s feet touch the stone floor. Her breath is hot against his throat. Wisps of dark hair tickle his cheek. She looks so much like the real thing, Varric could almost be fooled. 

“I hate the Fade,” Varric mutters. 

The demon laughs. 

“Why?” she asks. “I could give you everything you want, dwarf.”

The interrogation chamber melts away, walls wavering and reforming. The mist resolves into his room at the Hanged Man. Even the smell is right- stale beer and smoke. The Seeker lolls in the middle of his bed, naked skin glowing warm in contrast to the rich red silk of his sheets. She smirks at him. Her legs part. Varric closes his eyes. 

“What makes you think this is what I want?” he says. 

“You told me,” the Seeker says. Her breathing is rough, interspersed with little gasps. “You watch her, Varric. All the time.” 

The slick wet sound of flesh against flesh fills the air. Varric tries not to listen. 

“I’m a writer. People watching is part of the job,” Varric says. 

“Going to write your filthy stories about her?” the Seeker laughs. “A handsome dwarf plunging his turgid cock into a beautiful, willing warrior woman?”

His stomach jolts. Varric cracks one eye open. The Hanged Man is gone, replaced by the derelict elvhen temple he’d started in. The Seeker saunters up to him, still nude. Her mouth is curled in a pitying smile. Her breasts bounce with each step. 

“She’ll never want you, dwarf. Not like _that_ ,” she says. “No one ever does. Bianca left you for someone better. Hawke left you for that bounteous pirate and her little girlfriend. Do you think you stand a chance with this one?”

She gestures at herself. Her fingers skim down acres of luminous tan skin.

Varric shrugs. 

Hardness sours the Seeker’s expression. It’s the closest the demon’s come to looking like the real thing. Varric laughs. All the effort the demon’s put into trying to seduce him, and if it had just been annoyed with him from the start, he would’ve bought the illusion.

“What’s so funny?” the Seeker pouts. 

Varric shakes his head, grinning. 

The Seeker snarls. Around her, the Fade warps. Eerie green mist floats around her ankles. She stalks forward, frowning forbiddingly. 

“Don’t you want me, Varric?” she asks. 

It’s the Seeker’s voice, her body, but it isn’t _her._

“Varric?” A familiar shout breaks through the miasma.

Only one woman’s ever said his name with such fond exasperation. Well, actually a few women have, but there’s only one who’s Nevarran. And there’s only one Nevarran woman he wants to see right now. A dark form barrels through the sulky greenish fog. When she bursts into the light, Varric could crow with pleasure.

Cassandra is _livid_. The demon is nothing but a pale imitation, weak and washed out in comparison. How it could've thought itself her equal is a fucking mystery. How he could’ve bought it even for a second...

“Hey there Seeker. Nice of you to join us,” Varric quips. “What took you so long?” 

Cassandra eyeballs the demon. “My invitation was late.” 

The demon undulates forward. 

Varric clucks his tongue. 

“What is the world coming to?” he opines. 

Cassandra is still staring at the demon wearing her face. 

“Do I really look like that?” she asks. “I am very severe.” 

“You have a decisive face,” Varric assures her. 

Their demon looks very annoyed at being ignored. Varric continues ignoring it in favour of drinking in Cassandra. Despite their banter, she stands at the ready, wary eyes never letting the demon out of sight. She doesn’t spare him a glance. Varric tries not to feel neglected.

The demon stomps its foot. “Stop that!” 

Cassandra shoots it a dirty look. 

“I don’t sound like _that_!” she exclaims. 

She glares at the furious demon, her jaw set in a mulish line Varric is very familiar with. 

Varric shrugs. “No comment, Seeker.” 

Cassandra snorts. “Let us end this, then.” 

“You will not end anything, human! I will-” the demon rages. 

“Kill her and take her place?” Varric supplies.

Cassandra rolls her shoulders, and unsheathes her sword. She looks daunting, standing there with calm assurance, long sword at the ready. 

“You may try,” Cassandra informs the demon. “You will fail.” 

Varric might swoon, but the demon’s magic still holds strong, and he stays rooted to his spot. His fingers twitch. The demon drops the fake Seeker disguise between one step and the next. 

“Cocky,” the demon sneers. “Were you so brave when-” 

A dagger sprouts out of her throat. She sputters, hands flying up to the bloody blade. Cassandra lunges forward, one slash of her sword putting an end to the demon and its magic. As the demon’s body crumples, flames licking at it; the magic suffusing the temple slithers away. Colour leeches from the stones, intricate murals become nothing more than faint smears against scuffed and mouldering plaster. 

“What a dump,” Varric says. He takes one staggering step forward, his legs gone to pins and needles from the magic. “I liked that dagger.” 

Cassandra steps over the demon’s body, shoving her sword back in its sheath with haste. 

Varric blinks. One minute he’s trying to figure out how to make his legs work, and the next he has an armful of Cassandra. Her hands are everywhere probing for injuries.

“You are unharmed?” she asks. Worried brown eyes meet his.

“Yeah, Seeker,” Varric says roughly. “Everything’s fine.” 

Cassandra sighs, her head bowing. “Thank the Maker.” 

Her hands are still on his shoulders. This close, he can see small freckles dotting the bridge of her nose. 

“Seeker?” he asks. 

She looks up at him with such a soft expression that Varric finds himself hesitating. 

“You’re real,” he says. “The real Seeker.” 

Cassandra stares at him, her brow creased with concern. Just like the demon had. Varric’s head hurts. She should be the real one. The demon died, he’d thrown the damn dagger himself. Cassandra had struck it down. Nothing she hits ever gets up again. 

“I am,” Cassandra says. “What else would I be?” 

It’s such a Cassandra thing to say. A laugh bubbles up from Varric’s throat. 

“One of a kind, Seeker. You’re one of a kind,” Varric says. 


	96. A Massage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric and Cassandra spend a quiet night in.

The candle flickers, gutters once, twice, and goes out. Cassandra looks up, blinking muzzily. Her book is lying on her lap, one page crinkled. She smoothes the creased paper, frowning at her own carelessness. Varric spares her a quick, flashing smile, still mired behind his desk. Cassandra’s face warms. Discreetly, she rubs a hand over her mouth, checking for errant rills of drool. Reassured that she hasn’t slobbered all over herself as she slept, Cassandra chances a look at the window. Outside, the sky's velvet black, one thin sliver of silver all that shows of either moon. It had only been early evening when she’d gone to meet Varric. 

“You snore,” Varric remarks. 

“I do not,” Cassandra says, outraged. 

“Little wuffling noises,” he says. “Like a mabari.” 

Cassandra rolls her eyes. 

“Was my leg twitching too?” she asks, dryly. 

As she stretches one arm to return her book to the little table by her armchair, a twinge decides to make itself known somewhere deep in her shoulder muscles. Varric catches her soft gasp, worried eyes roving over her face. 

“I am fine,” Cassandra says. “I am simply too old to be sleeping in arm chairs.” 

“Getting feeble in your old age, Seeker.” Varric grins at her, eyes mischievous. “What are you now? Forty? Have you commended yourself to the Maker’s bosom yet?”

Cassandra grimaces. She rolls her shoulders, trying to dislodge the ache nagging at her. Instead, her back crackles, and the pain sharpens. 

“I could give you a massage,” Varric says, his voice bland. 

Cassandra meets his gaze. Varric is a skilled liar, and a wretched tease. Despite that, they are friends, and she can see no ulterior motive in his eyes. His mouth crooks up as though he’s aware of her thoughts, and finds it funny. 

Maker it would be nice to be rid of her aches and pains. However, such a thing could be easily taken care of with a visit to the medic’s. It is not the surcease of her twitching muscles that is appealing about Varric’s offer. The prospect of being touched is the real draw. How long has it been since someone reached for her, since she had felt like a person and not a patient or a supplicant, or a warrior?

Varric is waiting for an answer. Cassandra jerks her thoughts away from the lack of physical comfort in her life.

“I would like that,” she says, cautiously.

Varric’s face creases into a smirk, but his eyes burn briefly in the low candlelight. Possibly it is only a flight of fancy on her part. But perhaps it is not. Perhaps Varric feels for her-

Cassandra winces. 

Varric pads over to his bed. Cassandra’s brain stutters and blinks out. 

“Your bed is much nicer than mine,” she says. 

Varric spares her a sardonic lift of his eyebrow. “You sleep on a bedroll above the forge.” 

Cassandra is willing to wager only the Inquisitor has a nicer bed than Varric. The massive wooden four poster is carved with scenes of revellers doing what they do best, and laden high with pillows and blankets in crimson and cream. It suits him, Cassandra thinks. Loud and ostentatious, but sturdy beneath it all. 

“C’mere,” Varric says, and pats a spot on the foremost blanket. 

Cassandra presses her lips together. There is nothing unseemly in Varric’s offer. It is only her own prurient wishfulness that makes her hesitate. As she crosses the room, it is impossible to dismiss her desire. Varric waits for her, boots off and lounging on his bed, a picture of lazy luxury. His singular smile blooms on wry lips, and Cassandra’s heart trips on it. Midstep, she realizes. Varric is going to touch her. In moments, his fingers will press against her body. Cassandra swallows around her suddenly enormous tongue. Wordlessly, she sits on the edge of the bed, ignoring the warmth of him at her back. 

“Take your boots off, Seeker,” Varric drawls. “Stay awhile.” 

Cassandra leans forward to unbuckle her boots, and places them off to the side next to Varric’s. The disparity in size is a bit shocking.

“How will this-?” Cassandra asks, finishing her sentence with a gesture rather than words. 

Varric shifts behind her. 

“You can sit up,” he says. “Or lie down.” 

Lie in Varric’s bed as his hands coax the stiffness from her muscles? An alluring thought. A flush of embarrassment suffuses Cassandra’s cheeks. Is it wrong, to take what Varric is giving her and wish for something more? She suspects it’s so. Her poor heart constricts. 

“I’ll sit,” Cassandra decides.

Varric hums some absent minded agreement. He leans around her to drop something on his nightstand, and Cassandra catches a glimpse of his short, square fingers. Foolishly, she hadn’t thought he would remove his gloves. Varric moves again, and Cassandra switches to breathing softly through her mouth; the scent of Varric is heavy in the air, something citrusy and warm and arousing. 

Varric clears his throat. 

“You want to lift your shirt up or take it off?” he asks. His voice comes out rough and raspy. 

He sounds as awkward as she feels. 

Cassandra worries the hem of her tunic with her fingers. Across the room, her book lies abandoned on the table, Varric’s papers are scattered over his desk. The remains of their normal evening, suddenly seeming part of a different night. Cassandra’s heart thumps. Her fingers shake. Varric is warm and distinctly present, and she has never wanted a man more than this. 

“Varric,” she says. 

“Yeah, Seeker?” the bed dips as he moves. 

A thousand words crowd her throat, explanations for how she’d started on this path. How he’d started as an annoyance, and grown to be a trusted companion. How he can brighten her day, how much she wants to return the happiness he gives her unknowing. 

“I...have feelings,” she says. “For you. It seemed wrong to… go on without saying something.” 

Her words fall into the hot, empty air of Varric’s room. It seems an age before either of them breathes. Blood rushes in her ears, louder than the Waking Sea thrashing itself against the rocky shore.

“So, shirt on or off?” Varric asks. 

The crash of her heartbeat plunges into horrified silence. Cassandra’s skin crawls. 

“Neither. Excuse me, Varric,” she says, and moves to shove herself up and off his bed. 

A warm hand on the back of hers arrests Cassandra’s movement. 

“Stay,” Varric blurts out. 

Cassandra cranes her head to look back at him. Varric looks up at her, eyes wide and shocky. His fingers loop around her wrist, exerting the slightest pressure. She could break his grip in a second, with ease. It’s tempting to snap her arm away and storm off in a welter of embarrassment. But her heart whispers little hopeful words, and Cassandra stays, pulse jumping. 

“Why?” she asks, eyes narrowing. 

She waits, heart in her throat. 

Varric’s mouth crimps into a strange shape. The moment to speak passes. Varric looks away first. 

“I see,” Cassandra wrenches her wrist free from the circle of his fingers. 

Her back hurts, her heart hurts. Even her head threatens to start throbbing. Cassandra wants nothing more than to retreat to her room and personal training dummies. With enough exertion, she might be able to expunge this evening from her thoughts.

She pauses only for her book and boots. Varric makes no move to stop her. His door shuts softly behind her; somehow it is more satisfying than slamming it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For thewindysideofcare, sorry this isn't very cute.


	97. "Kiss Me"

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, no references to the Sixpence None The Richer song. Sorry.

“Kiss me,” Varric says. 

Cassandra gives him a flat look. In the long history of nonplussed looks, this one takes the damn cake. Varric sighs. 

“Worth a shot,” he says with a shrug. 

Cassandra’s mouth firms into a stern line. She pours another measure of ruby red wine into her glass. There is an effortless elegance to it, which is a sign he’s far past the point of no return with his feelings for her. Varric’s mind blooms with a thousand lines describing the curve of her wrist in the firelight. 

Cassandra lifts her glass. Fire reflects off the etched crystal, one of the hideously endearing set belonging to the Viscount’s household and which Varric uses solely to satisfy his warped sense of humour. She takes a sip, sets the glass back down, and Varric restrains himself from deciding he actually likes the damn bit of stemware. Cassandra’s eyes sparkle at him, though her mouth is still in that primmed up line. 

“Can you never be serious?” she sighs into the breathless space between them. 

Varric sits back in his chair. 

“What makes you think I’m not?” he says. 

Cassandra favours him with a very unimpressed glare. Her fingers tighten around her glass’ delicate stem. 

Varric inclines his head, acknowledging the obvious.

Cassandra snorts, her lips twisting into a humourless smirk. She swirls her wineglass, watching the near black wine catch the light. Varric takes a sip of his own wine. Its only redeeming quality as a beverage is Cassandra’s preference for it; left to his own devices Varric would rather ale. He would like it a great deal more if it were possible to taste it on Cassandra’s lips. Varric takes another sip, and reconsiders his poetic notions. 

Conversation, such as it is, dies. Cassandra stares abstracted into the depths of the absurd fireplace, clutching her absurd wineglass. Varric stares at her, and wonders what it is about women who can kick his ass. 

“Were you?” Cassandra barks out. 

Varric starts. 

“Were you serious?” Cassandra asks. 

Her sharp amber eyes zero in on his. Varric feels uncannily like a small rodent trying to stare down a hawk. His stomach is full of lead and sour wine. Cassandra’s challenging gaze makes him want to tease her. To repay her for the lurching in his guts, and the ache in his heart. The future splits into two ahead of him- one where he tells Cassandra, and another where he doesn’t. 

“Am I ever, Seeker?” he drawls. A cold fist grips his insides. 

Cassandra’s expression closes. It feels as though he’s had a door slammed in his face, Varric realizes. That sardonic little smile is back. Cassandra has become less fiery in the years after the Inquisition. Politics and the Game bank the flames of her temper. 

He wishes she’d shout, flip a table, scold him. Something. 

She wouldn’t, not in the Viscount’s residence. _Divine Victoria_ cannot afford such outbursts. 

His wine isn’t sitting well. 

“Excuse me, Viscount,” Cassandra says. 

She sets her glass down. The indifferent light picks out the grey at her temples. Varric resists brushing his fingertips against the grey streaks in his own hair. 

“Most Holy,” he says through numb lips. 

Cassandra stares him down. There is something in her eyes, her expression becoming momentarily less of a mask. Yearning and sorrow and anger burn in her eyes, brighter than the fire.

She sighs, and the bland mask is back. 

“Good evening, Varric,” she murmurs.

“Night, Seeker,” he says.

Cassandra leaves without looking back. The softly shut door echoes louder than any shouted accusation. 

Varric slops more wine into his glass. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For ceruleansocks who requested it!


	98. In Stitches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by invisibleinnocence's beautiful artwork. 
> 
> Cassandra patches Varric up.

“Ow.” 

Cassandra grits her teeth. The curving suture needle passes through split flesh. Varric flinches. 

“Who taught you to sew?” he asks. 

His voice, despite the attempt at brashness, wavers. Cassandra watches him glance at the needle and the thread protruding from his skin, and blanch. So much as it is possible for him to lose any more colour. Varric’s face is milk-white. His bloodless lips press into a tense line. Cassandra pulls as gently as she can, teasing the thread through and tightening the suture. Varric doesn’t breathe at all. Cassandra finishes the suture, cuts the thread, and moves on to the next one.

“All Seekers learn to suture a wound,” Cassandra says. Varric’s arm trembles beneath her hands. “We must be prepared for anything.” 

“The whole in the sky took you by surprise,” Varric points out. There’s no bite at all to the words. He sounds faint instead. 

Cassandra jabs the needle through again, watching sundered flesh draw closed. Uneven sutures march up Varric’s arm like drunken ants. He will have more scars, to add onto his existing ones. Fine lines stripe Varric’s skin. She can even see scars peeking through the dense cover of his chest hair. 

“We must be prepared for anything, within reason,” Cassandra amends. 

She snips the thread, and Varric flinches again. He darts a look at her work, and frowns. 

“Maker’s ass, Seeker. ‘S a hack job,” he says. “Don’t know what I expected.” 

That last bit comes out in a tone that she really doesn’t appreciate. Cassandra’s whole face corrugates. 

“Perhaps next time you will be more careful,” she bites out. 

Whatever Varric was going to say, he shuts his mouth instead as Cassandra starts in on another suture. His face has a waxen, greenish cast to it. 

“Your bedside manner is shit,” Varric observes. 

Cassandra focuses on the next suture. She is close to finishing, and then she can leave Varric to lick his wounds in peace. 

“You are not in a bed,” she says. 

Varric clears a laugh from his throat. “Suggesting you’d be nicer to me if I was?”

Soft heat steals up Cassandra’s face. 

“I am suggesting no such thing, dwarf,” she says. 

Sweat beads at Varric’s temples. 

Cassandra finishes the last suture. All that’s left is to apply a light bandage, and send Varric on his way. Before the numbing agent wears off. Before the pastiness of his skin can pull at her heartstrings. 

Her fingers linger on Varric’s abused shoulder. A pair of long slash marks stripe his back, silvery in the fading light. 

Cassandra sighs.

“Come then, it is done,” she says. Her fingers shake as she tidies her instruments. “Try not to move it overmuch.” 

Varric moves to shrug his shirt back on, and hisses. Cassandra raises her eyes to the Maker. He is testing her, clearly. 

“Usually women take my shirt off,” Varric jokes. His smile is crooked. 

Cassandra snorts. 

“Then you will have a good story for the next woman,” she says. 

Varric sways in his seat, his eyes heavy lidded. With great effort, he raises his head and offers her a limp smile. 

“Hey Seeker, wanna see my scars?” he says. “So no shit, there we were…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh gosh go check out this cute pic if you haven't already!
> 
> http://invisibleinnocence.tumblr.com/post/147626790171


	99. What's with the pigtails?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Herald has a question for Cassandra, about Varric.

“What’s with the pigtails?” Ivan drawls. 

Cassandra’s lips quirk up.

“That is a question for Varric, Herald.” Cassandra nods in Varric’s direction. “Perhaps after his story is done?”

They stand together at the outermost edge of Varric’s entourage, gathered around a flickering fire. Snowflakes drift in lazy swirls through the sky. Children ranging in age from maybe four to possibly twelve, their clothes in various stages of wear and quality. They are all watching Varric as he gestures, little faces wind blown and rapt. 

“The keep Solas spoke of is a day’s travel out,” Ivan says.

“Make it two,” Cassandra advises. “The mountain path is difficult for many.”

“I am Chosen,” Ivan says. “The Herald of Andraste. Surely my companions will not be thwarted by a mere mountain."

Cassandra counts to ten in Nevarran before she speaks again. 

“They are not your companions, Herald,” she says, motioning toward the exhausted children. “They are your responsibility.”

Two of the littlest children have curled up against Varric. Brother and sister, Cassandra thinks. They both have long tangled black hair, obscuring heavy lidded eyes. The girl has her thumb in her mouth. Varric lets the boy hold his hand. The toddler’s little fingers barely meet around Varric’s thumb. 

Ivan regards the little cluster of children with a wary eye. 

Varric’s somewhat lopsided stubby pigtails wobble as he continues to spin his tale. The children vibrate with excitement as he pauses at a tense moment. He looks oddly sweet, surrounded by adoring children, with the firelight playing on his hair. 

“Seeker,” Ivan says. 

Varric’s gaze catches hers. Cassandra lips tilt up in a soft smile. 

“Yes, Herald?” Cassandra says, a beat delayed. 

Ivan exhales a heavy breath. It gusts out in a white plume. 

“We will leave for this keep of Solas’ late tomorrow morning,” Ivan says slowly. “I expect we will reach it in two days.”

Varric’s audience gasp in one voice. Except for the two siblings, fast asleep with their faces buried in his tunic. 

“Very good, Herald,” Cassandra says with approval. 

Her attention goes back where it should be, to Ivan. There are more important considerations than whatever fondness she might feel towards Varric. Such as the logistics of moving a large group of people through the mountains. 

Still, it would have been nice to hear the rest of Varric’s story, Cassandra thinks as she goes to inform Leliana of Ivan’s decision.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by seaturtlesareawesome on tumblr!!


	100. Sweater Weather

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The weather outside is frightful, but in Varric's apartment waits someone delightful.

Bitter cold wind sneaks down Varric’s collar, tweaks at his nose and ears. The oyster-grey sky is heavy with clouds, the last few rays of weak sunlight filtering through them. Varric huddles into his scarf, shoving his hands deeper into his coat pockets. The walk back to his apartment is three times as long as it should be, trudging through grimy black snow. Every step feels leaden. Cassandra won’t be home for two more days, which stretch out into eternity before him. It’s absurd to feel her absence so sharply, but he does. It’s _boring_ without her, his apartment empty and cold. 

His apartment building looms, looking bleak and unwelcoming. As if it knows Cassandra’s away and all the warmth has been sucked out of it. Varric taps his fob against the door panel, and crosses the lobby to the elevator. His finger hovers over the button for Hawke’s floor for a split second, but she’s been gone for months now. Merrill has moved in with Isabela in the interim, her apartment holds nothing but furniture and dust. Varric hits the button for his own floor. The elevator judders to life, creaking its way up. It stops and drops three inches before the doors open. Varric steps up out of the elevator and turns the corner to his apartment. One of the lights in the hallway is out. In the dim light the hall looks drab. Precisely the way he feels.

Varric sighs. Leave him alone for five days and he turns into a melodramatic teenager. It’s sad, really. Hawke would laugh herself sick. His mouth curves up in a sardonic smile. Varric rounds the corner towards his apartment, and stops.There’s light peeking out from beneath his door. 

Varric’s hand hovers over the doorknob. His foolish heart skips and soars into the sky. It could be _Cassandra_ , it whispers. 

But she’s in Orlais for two more days, and she’s _obsessively_ organized so Varric would’ve heard if her plans changed. 

Pushing the door open, Varric fully expects to find one of his friends mooching a drink or his leftovers. He has three smartass remarks lined up, depending on who it is, what they’re doing, and why they’re there. Every word he possesses evaporates out of him. 

Cassandra is curled up on his couch, fast asleep. Dark hair hangs in her face, her eyelashes are a slash of black against her skin. 

She’s got his sweater on, the one Bethany knit him. 

Cassandra definitely wears it better, Varric thinks. Burgundy is her colour, and though the sweater’s too large for her, he can’t help but think she looks perfect. The sleeves end just before her knuckles, the wide neck droops to frame the long curve of her neck and one sharply carved collarbone. Varric takes a moment to drink the sight of her in. On a whim, he takes his phone out and snaps a quick picture, before drawing closer to the couch. 

There’s a book tangled in her fingers. It’s not one of his, and Varric’s not sure if he should feel affronted or not. 

“Mmf?” Cassandra blinks, sighs out a soft breath. 

“Hey Seeker,” Varric says. “Cheating on me with other authors?”

“Ass,” Cassandra says sleepily, but grins at him anyways.

Varric soaks up the warmth of her smile like parched earth after a rainstorm. Something tight unfurls in his chest. He leans down over the couch, curves his hand around the sleek line of her jaw. Cassandra kisses him once, twice. Varric plants a knee on the couch cushion, braces one hand against the couch’s arm as he pours himself into the next kiss. 

“Welcome home,” he says. 

Cassandra hums happily, kissing the spot beneath his ear she seems to love. 

“It is good to be home,” she says. “Though it is much warmer in Orlais.” 

“Lucky you,” Varric says. “I’ve forgotten what the sun looks like.”

“You don’t like Orlais,” Cassandra says. Her arms loop around his back. “ _Full_ of Orlesians.” 

Varric grins. “I like you, though.” 

Cassandra arches an eyebrow. “Enough to brave Val Royeaux?” 

“Eeh,” Varric says, wiggling a hand in the air. 

Cassandra smirks up at him, her eyes dancing with mirth. 

Varric kisses her nose. It’s a cute nose, and he hasn’t seen it in almost a week. 

Cassandra reaches up to brush a straying bit of hair out of his face. The cuff of her sweater grazes his cheek. Varric quirks an eyebrow at her. 

“Interesting clothing choice, Seeker. Want the name of my tailor?” he says. 

Cassandra’s face goes rosy. Her lips press together, twist into something embarrassed. 

“I borrowed it before I left,” she says stiffly. 

“You did?” Varric asks. 

Truthfully, he hadn’t noticed the sweater’s absence from his closet. Nor is it obvious why Cassandra would want it. Her gaze skitters away from his face, drops down somewhere near his collarbones before scooting over in the direction of the coffee table. 

“I-” her expression goes frustrated. Varric sits up. 

“Cass-” he starts. 

Worry steals its way into his voice. Cassandra looks like she wants a hole to swallow her up. 

“It smelled like you,” she blurts out. 

Varric screws his face up. “What?”

Cassandra frowns. 

“The sweater,” she says. “It-” 

Varric closes the space between them. Cassandra arches her neck as he brushes a gentle kiss beneath her jaw. She smells so good, like soap and herself, and a bit of sweat. Varric kisses the soft silk of her throat, craning his neck to nip her earlobe. Cassandra draws in a sharp breath. 

“Missed me?” Varric says in a low voice. 

Cassandra’s fingers sift through his hair. He can hear the smile in her voice when she answers him. 

“Perhaps a little.” 

There’s a pause. Varric kisses her cheek. 

“Did you miss me?” Cassandra asks, her tone just shy of teasing. 

Varric slips his hands beneath her sweater. 

“Perhaps a little,” he says. 

Outside, the sky darkens. Snow falls in starry flurries, blanketing the dirty city. It is a perfect night. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I AM SORRY FOR THE STUPID SUMMARY I COULDN'T HELP MYSELF
> 
> I did say that chapter 100 was probably going to be smutty, but this prompt ended up speaking to me.
> 
> CHAPTER 100 everyone! Gosh. I never expected to write this much, or have so many lovely people sending me comments and kudos and being so supportive. Thank you all, I appreciate each and every one of you more than you could know.


	101. Chapter 101

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra and Varric and a tub

The worst thing about Orlais is its devotion to excesses. If a little gilt is a good thing, a great deal of it is an excellent thing. Cassandra has lost count of all the various permutations of Andraste’s image she’s seen in their suite alone. But such things are to be expected. Varric, in an uncharacteristic bent, had chortled and set to exploring their vast, shining cave of a suite. 

“Seeker,” he calls. His voice echoes.

Cassandra fights the urge to check for supplies before she sets off on her expedition to unearth Varric from wherever he’s got to. The mental image of herself accompanied by a guide setting out to traverse the various treacheries of an Orlesian suite brings a smile to her lips. Still grinning, she crosses the room, passes through the little antechamber, and into- 

“Oh,” she breathes. 

Of course even the bathroom is a marvel. It should be infuriating, and it is- all this luxury hidden away for a favoured few to enjoy- but Varric is already stripping out of his shirt, so she can’t complain too much. 

Water burbles out of a faucet fashioned to look like a waterfall, splashing into a pool set into the floor, paved with thousands of tiny shimmering tiles. The air smells of crushed roses. 

Varric tosses Cassandra a look that sets her heart tripping. He skins out of his trousers, and steps into the tub. 

“You hate water,” Cassandra says. 

“And Orlesians,” Varric says. “But there are exceptions to every rule. Besides which, rules are made to be broken.”

He shrugs, which does things to his shoulders Cassandra adores. 

Varric sinks into the water with a soft plash, settling into it with an ease that makes Cassandra think of older, earthier gods. He looks at home there, amidst all the luxury. He raises an eyebrow, offers her a twisty little smile, and Cassandra groans. 

She strips slowly, boots and coat first, then her stockings and waistcoat. Varric’s gaze is a physical weight on her skin. Cassandra shrugs out of her fine linen shirt. Varric’s breathing echoes in her ears. Her breastband goes next. Cassandra rolls her shoulders, feeling Varric’s hungry eyes devour the flex of her muscles. Her trousers hit the floor.   
Varric’s hand slides in lazy strokes up and down his cock. Cassandra steps closer. 

“You do enjoy a spectacle,” she says, her voice low. 

Varric smirks. “Helluva show, Seeker.”

Cassandra sits on the tub’s edge. Her legs dangle in the warm water. Varric watches her with lust-dark eyes. Cassandra spreads her legs. Her heartbeat picks up speed. 

“That was only the first act,” Cassandra replies. 

It feels a little foolish, rising to Varric’s penchant for playing with language. Cassandra has the familiar feeling of pushing herself out of her comfort zone. 

Varric watches her with hooded eyes. His hand toys with his cock almost as an afterthought. The weight of his attention is with her, Cassandra realizes. 

Her own hands flutter down from her collarbone to her breasts. It feels forced, a role she is playing. Cassandra lets her gaze lock on Varric, before she closes her eyes. Her head lolls back. It is very quiet in the bathroom but for the sound of falling water and softly ragged breathing.   
Cassandra’s hand cups her breast, kneading and teasing. She rolls her nipple between her fingers, her grip firm. One hand sneaks down to her cunt. Water ripples as she opens her legs further. Her fingers stroke slick flesh, barely dipping past her lips. Cassandra catches her breath, repeats the movement. Her other hand abandons her breast, gripping the tub’s edge instead. Wet fingers glide over her clit. Cassandra’s hips jerk ever so slightly. Water sloshes. 

Cassandra opens her eyes to a fuzzy world that resolves into Varric, bright eyed as he ruts into his own hand. His lip’s caught between his teeth. Sweat beads on his brow. 

Cassandra rubs circles over her clit, exhales heavily, just short of a whimper. Varric’s heated gaze locks on her. 

“Cassandra,” he rasps out.

Her fingers move faster. Her free hand tightens its grip on the tub’s edge. 

“Maker. That’s- that’s it,” Varric says. 

Cassandra’s thighs tense, quiver. Varric sounds proud, pleased. Desperate. Her fingers delve into her cunt, and whoever keens with pleasure is lost to the echoing bathroom. Cassandra rocks her hips, throws her head back. 

“Ahn-” it was supposed to be words, that noise. Cassandra doesn’t care, groans again. 

The bathroom is full of wet, obscene sounds. 

Varric’s hand stills on his cock, fingers tight around it. 

“Please,” he says. 

Cassandra gasps. She releases her death grip on the tub’s edge to beckon him forward. 

Water sloshes over the tub’s sides as Varric lunges towards her. Their mouths seal together, Cassandra’s hands yield to Varric’s as he lines his cock up against her. 

The first slow stroke is nearly the last. Cassandra clenches around Varric, cunt spasming as he rocks into her. His head drops to her collar bone. Cassandra shudders, drags him closer. His arms tense, every muscle from his shoulders to his calves rock hard as his hips snap forward, fucking into her. 

Cassandra melts. Varric groans, teeth sinking into her neck. He shivers once, spills inside her with a vulnerable little sigh. 

“Just a little more,” Cassandra pleads. 

Her fingers dig into Varric’s tense shoulders. His hips jerk forward, Varric’s shaking, spent body trying to bring her to her release. His fingers grind against her clit. His cock twitches. 

Cassandra falls over the precipice, her mouth locked over Varric’s. 

They slip down into the water. Varric’s head cradled between her breasts, his shocky breathing cool on her skin. Cassandra’s heart pounds. 

“Thought people bathed to get clean.” Varric mumbles. 

Cassandra groans and smacks his shoulder. 

Perhaps the excess is not the worst thing about Orlais.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by uchidachi on tumblr 
> 
> I do not know what happened with this prompt.


	102. Helluva Thing To Wake Up To

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Varric wakes up to something

Varric's still drowsing when Cassandra clatters back into their room. She kicks the door shut and Varric startles. Propping himself up on one elbow, he waits for the blurriness to resolve into a coherent image. What he sees is Cassandra bearing a heavy tray and smiling.

"Good morning," Cassandra says, crossing the room. 

Varric knuckles the sleep from his eyes, offering her a hazy smile. 

"Mornin, Seeker," he says, voice raspy. 

His hand strokes Cassandra's hair, a gentle, reverent motion encompassing the silky hair at the nape of her neck and the warm skin of her jawline. It's a routine movement, one of his favourite habits. Cassandra hums, kisses his forehead, and sets down the tray she's carrying. There's enough food for a small army stacked precariously on the sturdy lacquered bit of wood. Varric lifts the lid on something that turns out to be oatmeal, and grins. 

"Suggesting I'll need my strength, Seeker?" he drawls. 

Cassandra rolls her eyes at him. Her cheeks tint pink, anyways. 

"It was given to me on the stairs," she says. "Ariadne was very insistent that we..."

Varric raises an eyebrow, watching the blush cascading down her face, towards interesting places currently obscured by clothing. 

"Celebrate our anniversary properly?" Varric says. 

Cassandra's eyes flick down before she can catch herself. Varric's grin magnifies in both stupidity and pleasure. Strange how one look from Cassandra can send a flood of emotions through him. Especially when she glances at him from beneath her eyelashes, or better still, meets his eyes with that heady expression of frank desire and love. 

"Extravagant for a six month anniversary," Cassandra remarks. 

"Think they're relieved we haven't killed each other yet," Varric says. 

Cassandra snorts and sits back down on the bed, her legs crossed. Without thought, they tangle together, fingers entwined. To his unending delight, Cassandra is a tactile person- she has to touch, to feel. Varric kisses her hand. 

"Six months," Cassandra murmurs. "Has it been so short a time?" 

She pours them both tea, dumps the correct amount of sugar (a lot) and milk (a little) into his cup automatically. Varric passes her a cup of black tea, feeling oddly warm that they know such mundane things about one another. Probably that's something other couples don't think about. Varric could, right now, name Cassandra's favourite food, time of day, and pair of socks, and he couldn't be more fucking delighted. 

(Blueberry pastries, twilight, the red ones with the darned left heel) 

Six months of knowing things about each other, learning where their interests intertwine and where they don't, where the sore spots are and when to talk about them. Six months of finding Cassandra at his side, and being at hers, without question. 

"A blink of a nug's eye," Varric says. 

Cassandra snickers. Sunlight streams through their windows, bright and warm on their quilt, catching the colours of the mismatched Skyhold crockery. Not the stuff they break out for the dignitaries, these. The kind of thing you only give to family, Varric thinks. Cassandra sips from her cup, leaning against his shoulder. Varric picks up a slice of thick, buttered toast.

"You are going to get crumbs in the bed," Cassandra says. 

Varric offers her a bite of it. Cassandra chews happily, wiping a smear of butter from her chin.

He could spend the rest of his life with this woman.

The thought isn't a startling one. Varric feels a moment of disconnect, wondering if he _should_ be feeling surprised. He'd promised a lifetime with Bianca and got fifteen years. There's a second odd tilt to the world on the realization that he hasn't thought about Bianca in a long damn time. Nor does thinking of her hurt, like probing at a bruise.

Varric snakes an arm round Cassandra's waist. The day feels new and brighter hued than before. Cassandra plants a kiss on the crown of his head.

"Helluva thing to wake up to," Varric murmurs.

“Breakfast in bed,” Cassandra clucks her tongue. “You’re spoiled.” 

He can hear laughter in her voice, rich and warm. 

“Definitely,” Varric agrees. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> from a prompt given by thewindysideofcare over on tumblr, though i think they had something smuttier in mind...


	103. Comfort Food

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra interrupts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a wee tiny fic for uchidachi who prompted "comfort food"

“Varric-” Cassandra stops dead in her tracks, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. 

“Yes, Seeker?” he mumbles. 

She shouldn’t laugh. Cassandra reminds herself of that, raising her eyes to the ceiling. There is nothing funny about the scene before her, only that Varric looks so chagrined at being caught indulging himself. 

To be fair, the cake does look delicious. 

“You have-” Cassandra gestures to her cheek in explanation. 

Varric’s ears go pink as he brushes a smear of chocolate icing from his cheek.


	104. I thought I'd never see you again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra sees Varric again, also caves still suck.

Varric’s eyes are deceiving him. His hallucinations have taken a turn for the cruel, which shouldn’t surprise him, really. A dark shape approaches the cave’s mouth, obscured by the driving rain. He’d recognize that silhouette anywhere, anytime, which makes its unreality all the more painful. Shivering, Varric sinks lower, curving in on himself. His eyes shut tight. When he opens them again, the hallucination is still there. He can’t hallucinate a fire, or a bed, or something to make him forget about the clamminess seeping up through the rocks and into his body. No, his brain has to do this, as though it wants to wring a little more misery out of him. 

“Shit,” Varric chokes out a laugh. 

Cassandra’s brow furrows, wiping away the concern he’d seen there before. 

“Varric,” she breathes, her voice shocked. 

Her armour clanks, echoing in the damp cavern in counterpoint to the drip of water and the soft shushing of the rain. She’s at his side in seconds, crouching down in the dirt. Rivulets of water drip from her body to form pools of mud between them. 

Any self respecting hallucination shouldn’t wear armour, Varric thinks, observing Cassandra through bleary eyes. A proper hallucination wouldn’t look like she’d just been sucker punched in the gut, either.

Varric braces a hand against the chill stone floor, pushing himself back up into a sitting position. It takes more effort than it should. His head swims, and for a moment the world flickers out. 

When he comes back to himself, Cassandra is supporting his head against her shoulder, her arm around his shoulders. It’s not comfortable, given that she’s in her armour, but it’s a step above the cave wall. 

Cassandra huffs, her mouth curling up in a wry smile. 

“I am relieved to rank above a cave in your affections,” she says. 

“Shit, was that a joke?” Varric asks. “Worst hallucination ever.”

Cassandra shifts, and the jostling causes his head to bounce off her armour. There’s a pop, and Varric blinks. 

“That hurt,” he says. 

Cassandra tilts the bottle in her hand to his lips. The cloying artificial sweetness of a potion slides down his throat. 

Varric grimaces. “So, not a hallucination, then?”

Cassandra wrinkles her nose. “I am sorry, the Inquisitor and Dagna have been… experimenting with the taste.” 

“Bananas and existential despair,” Varric says with disgust. 

His head feels clearer already, some of the feverish fog lifting.

Cassandra’s grip on him doesn’t slacken. 

Her vambraces dig into his skin. The proud line of her neck bows. Her forehead rests against his crown. Water drips down his face. Words jam in Varric’s throat. They sit like that, listening to the rain slashing down, until Cassandra clears her throat, once more the (somewhat waterlogged) no nonsense Seeker Varric’s used to. 

“We have camped not far from here,” she says. “When the rain stops, I’ll fetch the Inquisitor-” 

Varric doesn’t mean to say anything, and he doesn’t. The small, involuntary gasp of dismay betrays him instead. 

Cassandra looks down at him. He’s curled in her lap, Varric realizes. Her armour catches him in all kinds of awkward places, and it’s not a very warm embrace, but she’s still _here_ , she’s not a dream. He doesn’t want her to go, to leave him in the cold darkness of the cave. Cassandra’s face contorts, her mouth pursing. For a second, Varric thinks she’s about to scold him, until a large tear rolls down her face, followed by another. 

“I thought I would never see you again,” she says, the words harsh as they tear from her throat. 

Her mouth trembles. 

Varric loops an unsteady hand around the back of her neck, exerts a little pressure to coax her down. Her forehead touches his. Teardrops spatter his face. 

“Can’t get rid of me that easily,” Varric says hoarsely.

“No, I suppose not,” Cassandra agrees, her voice wet and uneven.

“So-” he starts. 

“There is no use in our leaving until the rain stops,” Cassandra says. 

Relief surges through Varric’s veins, leaving exhaustion in its wake. His eyelids droop once more, his eyes gritty and achy. Cassandra settles him more comfortably on her lap. Her armour only pokes him a little. 

“Take you over a cave floor any day, Seeker,” Varric mumbles. 

Cassandra snorts. 

“Fool dwarf,” she murmurs. 

Varric carries the fond tone of her voice down with him into the blackness of true sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Less short than the last one, prompted by uchidachi on tumblr! they are adorable as heck btw.


	105. Feeling a Little Tents

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am sorry for the stupid pun title

Tents are definitely a human invention. They’re the only ones who would consider a scrap of canvas an improvement over sleeping in the elements. Varric shifts, trying to find a comfortable spot more or less devoid of rocks. It might be a hopeless endeavour. 

On the opposite bedroll, Cassandra sighs and buries herself deeper in her blankets.   
They must have made camp in a gravel pit. Varric wriggles. 

“Varric. Go to sleep,” Cassandra grumbles. 

“Only if you tell me a bedtime story,” Varric says. 

It’s not the best comeback, but no one can be at their best after a month camping. 

Cassandra snorts, mumbles something that might be a prayer to the Maker or an insult to Varric’s parentage, and rucks her blankets up over her head.   
It shouldn’t be cute but it sort of is. 

Varric raises his eyes to the heavens. In this case, the heavens are comprised of waterlogged, sagging canvas. 

That’s probably not good. 

“Seeker,” Varric says.

Somewhere beneath the blanket mound, Cassandra sighs. 

“I am sleeping,” she says, somewhat muffled. “You should try it.”

“You picked a great time to develop a sense of humour,” Varric says, eyeballing the tent. 

One wall is looking more lopsided than it should. 

“Ugh,” Cassandra groans. 

“Look, Seeker. There’s something wrong with the tent,” Varric says. 

Cassandra flings her blankets off. Propping herself up on one arm, she glares at him. The effect is undone by her hair, entirely on end and extremely adorable. Her face is flushed, her sleep shirt hangs off one shoulder. Varric keeps his gaze somewhere around her nose. 

“There is something wrong with this tent,” Cassandra agrees, her voice drowsy. “It contains a dwarf who will not go to sleep!”

She flops back down onto her bedroll. 

The tent collapses on top of them both

Varric would appreciate its comedic timing more if it weren’t also raining. 

“Maker take it,” Varric curses. “What did I say, Seeker?”

Cassandra lifts a swath of canvas. 

“I think the opening is this way,” she says, completely ignoring him. 

They crawl out of the fallen tent and into the pouring rain. Their tent is a soggy pile of canvas and tangled ropes. Cassandra stares at it, hands on her hips, the rain plastering her hair to her skull. 

She looks at him, and her eyes crinkle.   
Laughter rings out over the patter of rain.   
Cassandra is bent over at the waist, laughing so hard Varric’s a little worried. 

“Oh,” she gasps out. “It is like something from your books!”

Varric gawks at her. A smile teases at the corners of his mouth. One of the Inquisition scouts hurries over to them, face white. 

“I am so sorry Messere Tethras, Seeker Pentaghast,” the poor scout says. 

The absurdity of the whole situation hits Varric like a ton of bricks. Cassandra is giggling, they’re both soaked to the skin, and their tent mysteriously collapsed. It really is like something he’d stick into one of his stories. 

Laughter erupts from Varric’s lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompted by uchidachi on Tumblr! Thank you dear!


	106. Some Kind of Mistake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "For which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For uchidachi who requested it and then helped me smooth out all the rough spots. <3

Cassandra sighed, contented. Varric's head was a heavy weight on her shoulder, the loose strands of his hair itched the side of her neck. Softly smiling, Cassandra swept Varric's hair back. He slid his arm over her stomach, curling in closer. Cassandra shivered as his fingertips skated across sensitive skin. His broad hand curled around the jut of her hip in a proprietary sort of way Cassandra found she enjoyed. 

"So, Seeker," he said. His voice was warm and rich with laughter. "Tell me. What one of my bad parts finally won you over?" 

Cassandra rolled her eyes. 

"I might ask the same of you, dwarf," she teased. "I was told that you were sick with love for me."

Varric snorted. 

"I was told that you were wasting away from unrequited love," he said against her throat. "Pining like some heroine from a shitty novel."

Cassandra stiffened. Red hot embarrassment scorched her face. 

"I was not!" she said, unable to keep the derision from her voice. 

“Is that why you were waiting outside my door?” Varric asked, laughter in his voice. 

His lips pressed against her bare shoulder. 

Cassandra shoved him away, sitting up in bed, brightly aware of her tunic hanging off her shoulders. 

“Do not be a fool,” she snapped. 

Varric propped himself up on one arm, looking at her. Cassandra hitched her tunic up. A swath of bronze coloured hair slipped over Varric’s shoulder. His face creased into a grim smile. The light in his eyes dimmed, a marked change from the way they'd shone with happiness just before. 

"Of course not. Maker forbid you admit to feeling something," Varric said, his voice flat. 

"I feel, dwarf," she snarled, fixing her gaping tunic. 

"Self righteousness and anger don't count," Varric shot back. 

He tossed the sheets back, searching for his clothing. Cassandra glared at his back, ignoring the distracting flex of his broad shoulders as he tied his hair back. 

"This from a man who has used every trick he knows to keep from saying anything that might come within spitting distance of the truth?" Cassandra asked pointedly. 

Varric threw his tunic on, his fingers fumbling the catches. The expression on his face was carefully blank. 

"At least I know when to admit I fucked up," he said. "Without dragging someone halfway across a goddamn continent!"

Cassandra's hands clenched. How many more times would he throw that back in her face? How could she have thought… how could he care for her, when he still blamed her for doing her duty? 

"This was a mistake," she grit out. "My apologies, Varric."

Icy hands gripped her innards, strangling her. The room closed in on her, too small to contain herself, Varric, and all the feelings she'd briefly denied. Words crowded her throat, and withered to ashes at one look from Varric's sardonic gaze. Closing her tunic, Cassandra held her head high, and strode past Varric's half clothed form without another look. Her hand closed around the doorknob. Acid burnt her throat. 

Turning her head, she caught sight of the bleakness written across Varric's face. He stood by the bed, the sunlight streaming through the window limning him in soft gold. It was unfair that he should still be so handsome, so dear to her. Their eyes met. It seemed to Cassandra that if one of them could only speak, if either of them found the right words to break the silence, they might find their way back. 

The silence stretched out unbroken. Cassandra let herself out of Varric's room and shut the door behind her.

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr. Thank you for reading, please feel free to comment and let me know what you think.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Wishes and Kisses [podfic]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6115832) by [weatheredlaw](https://archiveofourown.org/users/weatheredlaw/pseuds/weatheredlaw)




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